


imago

by twigcollins



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-05 05:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 88,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3107402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigcollins/pseuds/twigcollins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Random moments throughout the game, mostly just introspection. Dorian POV. </p><p>"He rather needs these people not to murder him in his sleep. Debauching the Holy Light of Andraste’s Grace should probably be near the top of his pile of don’ts."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Started the game with a Cullen romance and ended up pondering Dorian. Go figure.
> 
> 2\. No beta. I'll do my best to dot those t's and cross the i's.

So. “Haven.” 

He’d call it quaint or charming, but Dorian rather likes his teeth where they are, if it’s all the same. 

Seeker Pentaghast is just waiting for an excuse, and the Commander isn’t any happier with his presence here - an ex-Templar, they say, and that means quite a bit more than he’s used to. Overall, though, Dorian can’t help but feel a little disappointed - yes, his arrival has been met with a fair measure of alarm and intrigue, but between the Qunari mercenary-spy at the gates and the Orlesian First Enchanter in the Chantry hall, it seems he’s just one more mismatched part in a very strange machine.

Still, there is the ego-affirming several-foot radius around him at all times - a pair of Chantry sisters actually jumped out of his way earlier - and dead silence in front of the door to the small, single-room shelter he’s been given, a Templar guard stationed just far enough away that she’s plausibly not there only to deal with him.

Right.

So far, Dorian’s only visitor has been a small, blonde elf with truly tragic hair, leaning through his doorway just long enough for a startled glance and a ‘fecking _gobshite_ ’ before disappearing again. Perhaps some poor, wandering madwoman, if her choice of attire was anything to go by. 

A storm has been roaring its way through Haven since his arrival - yes, it really _is_ this cold all the time and yes people really do live here by choice and yes they still distrust magic even if it’s the only thing that’s kept Dorian’s face from freezing off - and so he’s been content to spend much of his time studying the notes they’d recovered from Redcliffe. Alexius’ notes, _his_ notes - and they’d been delivered to him fast enough that Dorian doubts the Inquisition has even made a full copy of their own. Funny to have them returned at all, and just as he had been planning the best way to steal them back without having any inconspicuous scouts tossing him off even less-conspicuous cliffs.

‘Sister’ Leliana might not bother expending the energy to see him dead, but should he conveniently vanish-to-death Dorian doubts they’d lower many flags.

Process of elimination suggests he has the Herald to thank for all he does have, the only one with the influence to make it happen and also the only person in a thousand miles that might be dependably on his side.

 _“I’m the one who’s dying,”_ Felix had said, with the sort of honest acceptance Dorian has never had about anything, _“and I’m half-certain I’ll still outlive you.”_

Dorian can’t help but smile, because it all had been rather slapdash and reckless - absurdly reckless, strolling into the middle of the southern war, _multiple_ wars, even in Alexius’ shadow - and that on top of everything that had come before in Minrathous. He smiles because a pack and his favorite staff is all he has in the world now. A borrowed hovel and a fire that he cannot stoke high enough to ignore the hint of cold lurking behind it, hungry and waiting - but for all of that he’s still himself, isn’t he? 

He’s still here.

The smile fades, of course, as he flips his way through page after page of Alexius’ careful notations - a script that goes from familiar and tidy to far less legible over time, with dried pools of ink finally smearing across the pages, where the pen had rested for too long. He can only guess what the man holding it had been thinking of - what? Regret? Determination? Carving out every piece of himself that mattered to buy those few more seconds for his son? The bundle of paper feels like a stone in his hand, weighted down with so much pointless loss and Dorian’s had the time to accept it all and yet his thoughts keep running in the same dull circles.

The sort of problem a thing like time magic ought to be able to fix, but Dorian had known from the start that they were skirting the edge of the possible even as he was trying to nail down the theory. It’s always going to be a more useful philosophical exercise than a proper field of study. Dorian would like to admire the way Alexius got it working but there’s only a few ways to manage the sort of shortcuts he’s looking at and damn it, _damn it_ he wanted no part of this. The Alexius he used to know would want no part of this. 

No use in lingering over how it all changed, or how for all that sacrifice, nothing was left of Felix, of his broken friend in that broken world that never will be. How he is still dying in the here and now - will die - and it’s unfair and a damned waste but there are lines that aren’t meant to be crossed, even for the terribly clever, even to right the worst of wrongs. 

Still, with a bit of work Dorian might yet be able to salvage some useful fragment of all that research. If not quite pitching himself headfirst through time, then a variant on what he’d seen at the rifts, subtle temporal manipulation over a managably short range. A tricky bit of spellcraft, if he can get it to work at all, but even if it doesn’t the results won’t tear reality in half. It will at least give him a puzzle to keep his mind occupied, while the world decides if it feels like ending.

As for the rest of it… Dorian calmly rips out a page, the only record of months of work, and who knows what greater cost - and crumples it up, tossing it into the fire. A dozen more pages follow it to ash. No scholar worth the word wants to see knowledge destroyed, especially with such a price already spent, but he can’t think of anything from this but a weapon that too many will want and that no one should have. 

Power he did not pay for, and there’s far greater value in letting that go.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s not fond of sensible hours. Well, they’re perfectly sensible for Dorian’s own needs, which are usually whenever he feels like getting up until whenever he stumbles off into his own bed, someone else’s - or on the truly interesting days - an ornamental garden, the antique map room in the library at Carastes or the backseat of an unknowing Magister’s second-best carriage.

If it’s been a while since he’s had quite that much fun, there’s no reason anyone here needs to know it. 

He prefers to wear the Dorian Pavus of a few seasons past, regardless. The echo of a man without dull secrets to ignore, tawdry sins lumping up all the rugs. Only the proud Altus, riding high on every expected privilege of fortune - brilliant student, talented mage, with every scandal perfect for after-dinner storytelling.

A pretty party favor. Dorian thought he’d understood how his world worked, where all the sharp edges were and how to make the endless climbing look like easy art. He thought he’d known the difference, what was disposable and what would endure, what he could rely on - only to discover he’d had it backward the entire time.

What happens now? If this falls out from under him, where else is there to go?

Attempting to outmaneuver Alexius had been an excellent distraction from all kinds of uncomfortable questions. All that time to spend loathing the outdoors, cursing out the local wildlife, wearing his clothes for _three days in a row_ and, of course, trying not to die while averting the global apocalypse. 

Maybe not so much that last one. 

He thinks this Herald might prove a far superior diversion. If nothing else, Dorian’s intrigued, and that’s never a bad feeling.

He’s only managed one real conversation with the man so far, and even that was a series of stilted fragments on the return trip to Haven. The ‘Get to Know Your Friendly Tevinter’ primer, all those lovely questions about blood magic and slavery and the Black Divine. Oddly enough it hadn’t turned into the argument he’d expected, though that could have been the Herald running off every other second to speak with Fiona or one of the other mages, answering questions and calming fears, making assurances the whole way back.

The man never stops moving. If anything, it was even worse once they reached their destination. Dorian has watched him cross Haven a dozen times in a span of hours, back and forth and back again, sometimes appearing out of nowhere, in what seems the opposite direction from where he disappeared, as if he’s lugging about some spare time magic of his own. Determined to keep the alliance together, even if he has to do it one man at a time. 

The Imperium’s been all too delighted to spectate ever since Kirkwall exploded, with Templars running mad and the mages scattered like frightened nugs and from a distance it was all so very entertaining, watching the wheels come off that particular cart. Dorian is ashamed to admit he’d felt a bit of smug satisfaction himself, that superstitious fear and self-righteousness coming back to bite them - but then he’d been there, in the middle of it, all that carnage right up close. Close enough to see the rational and the sensible and the good swallowed up right alongside all the fools, where the only remaining options were run and hide and hope the worst didn’t follow.

The mages here are not without talent, and they’re only a scattered, weary sample of what the southern Circles have to offer - not that any of them will talk to him. Dorian could say it’s a mixture of awe and fear that’s kept them away, but that’s not what he sees. The Imperium prefers to think of it as envy, but there’s no mistaking this - it’s hate, nothing less, pure hatred and a very real disgust. No matter what hasty deals the First Enchanter had forced on them, most of the mages would rather die here than go North, and even the more curious won’t risk implicating themselves with so much as a ‘good morning’ in his direction.

Dorian wonders what kind of stories are circulating back home, even now - that damned fool Pavus, gone to mingle with the barbarians in a gap year fit of pique - and what sort of odds they’re giving for his survival. Alone on a cold rock, surrounded by only the most grudging of allies, with no heated floors or private baths or even, at the moment, an extra pair of socks. He’d like to think he’s already surprised them.

He would very much like to surprise himself.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s past midnight, when Dorian finally wrestles his iced-over door into opening, the world so silent around him he can hear his breath crackle deep in his lungs, each step in the snow with its own particular crunch and hello, _that’s_ his nose hairs freezing up, or perhaps his mustache attempting to run for cover, but with the wind died down to nothing even the piercing cold has a certain… peace in it. He’s still not used to the sight of his breath in the air, and watches it rise into a sky that - oh, well. That’s just decadent, even with the Breach to clutter the view.

No stars like that in Minrathous, too many people, lights and haze for half such a view. He might been startled by the stars above the sea if he’d spent five minutes with anything other than hanging his head over the railing. By the third day even the sailors had grown tired of laughing at him. Dorian had reached the far shore just in time to be greeted by a rainstorm, and there must have been stars since then - unfamiliar ones, ones he only knows from books - but here in the mountains it seems they’re close enough to reach for, with smooth, glittering trails of dust in between, the stars not hung in some empty black but just a small part of a far richer plain. One more mystery to explore.

He looks up for a long time.

Only a few guard stand the night watch, the snow packed down mostly to mud and straw on the main paths. Dorian can cheat a bit to keep from stumbling into any water barrels, though the soldiers he does pass glare at him twice as hard for the flame flickering between his fingers. As he understands it, there’s been quite a bit of care put into which guards are stationed around the mages' side of camp, for the benefit of all involved, and the Herald remains a prominent fixture in most of the discussions and disputes.

So it’s maybe not such a wonder, to see that the lights are on in what Dorian thinks are his quarters. The guards posted at the door seem to support that hypothesis, one of them stepping into his path as he approaches. Who knows what other eyes might be on him, if someone’s waking up the Seeker or the Sister even now.

“He’s expecting me.” Dorian says, with the bright smile reserved for his best unmitigated bullshit. A pleasant surprise then, when the guard opens the door and, after a brief conversation, actually waves him inside.

The Herald has what can be charitably called a vestibule, an extra fireplace with no extra ornamentation, and maybe the least shabby rug. Other than that, there’s nothing to suggest he’s even noble, let alone the god-touched avatar of the Maker himself.

“Evening.” He smiles without looking up from his work, legs stretched in front of him, his body a lean diagonal from chair to floor. Dorian takes an extra moment to appreciate the view. “Anything wrong?”

“I find there is this horrid white powder everywhere, and no one else seems properly concerned. I’m struggling to recall why I thought this was a good idea.”

Hardly his best attempt, but it gains him half a smile anyway. The Herald is busy tinkering with the end of his staff, attempting to pry out what appears to be a blade that’s both snapped and half-melted from the end, with a new one waiting to take its place. The room seems as much workshop as living quarters, pieces of leather and stone soaking in lyrium potions, some staves in varying levels of assembly and even more that have been damaged well past the point of return - one split nearly in two along the vertical, another shattered down to half it’s size and a third melted and warped and -

“I’ve seen you cast. You’re not this terrible.”

He’s rather good, in fact, with a few bonus points for doing so in the midst of future armageddon. Dorian hadn’t dared to rely on a barrier not his own in… ever.

“I was holding back.” The Herald finally glances up, and Dorian remembers what he’d noticed somewhere along the way - his eyes are startlingly blue. “I’ve been doing some experiments, trying to channel the Mark through regular casting, just to see what I can get it to do. So far, it’s fairly reliable at destroying staves.”

Dorian flicks one finger out, tapping the end of a cast-off grip. “You must have people for this.”

“The last time I brought in the front half of one staff, and the back of another, and Harritt started making these… noises. Besides, it keeps me occupied. I’m a bit of an insomniac. Always have been, even before the magic.” He nudges the chair nearest to Dorian with the tip of his boot. “You can take a seat, unless the lounging in doorways isn’t optional.”

“It’s more of a hobby than a profession.”

“I bet you could make it work.”

Maybe they’re flirting. Maybe. It might not all be in Dorian’s imagination, that hint of a certain… frisson between them, but it's hardly an absolute. No way of telling exactly how it works in the south. It could be just a polite acknowledgement, meeting him halfway - _yes, I can do this too. No blushing Chantry neophytes here, sorry._ \- and whatever the case, it would be in Dorian’s best interest to keep things professional. 

He rather needs these people not to murder him in his sleep. Debauching the Holy Light of Andraste’s Grace should probably be near the top of his pile of don’ts.

“Well then, Herald-“

“Thierry, please. If anyone’s going to ignore the title, it should probably be you.”

Dorian frowns, curious. “Rather Orlesian for a Marcher, isn’t it?”

“I’m named for an old family friend.” Thierry nudges the chair again. “I’d really rather not have to pay you for the lounging, if it’s all the same. Josephine will start selling bits of me for holy relics.”

“As long as I’m not imposing.” Liar. Dorian wants to stay, and not just because there’s a bottle of wine uncorked on the table and the Herald’s quarters are at least ten degrees warmer than his own.

He sits down, pouring himself a glass, as much out of curiosity as habit. A simple vintage, nothing spectacular, certainly not beyond the reach of most anyone else in camp. One more subtle suggestion that he may have actually arrived where he’d intended to go, not the usual gilt and gold beneath a halfhearted lie but the real thing.

With an ugly screech of metal, a half-swallowed curse and a sheepish grin, Thierry finally manages to get what’s left of the blade free from the end of his staff. Dorian always had more ideas for weapons than he’d ever had the time or desire to implement them, preferring to buy the best work of others and consider it good enough. He didn’t even bring his most-powerful staff with him - _that_ had been a gift from his father, of course, and he feels as stupid for casting such an obvious advantage aside as he does about regretting, even for a moment, leaving it behind.

“So, now that you’ve had the chance to look around - how badly do you want to run?”

“It’s impressive.” Dorian chuckles when the Herald pulls a face. “No, I’m not being polite. You’ve managed a great deal with next to nothing, which is… not what I’m used to. I grew up with all kinds of tales of southern barbarians and their half-trained mages. How the greatest of your First Enchanters couldn’t stand against even the rawest members of our lowest Houses. Surprise, surprise… I believe ‘Madame de Fer’ could lay waste to half the Magisterium, should she feel so inclined.” 

“I’ve certainly made it a life goal not to piss her off.” Thierry says, though he had negotiated with the mages on their terms, against the hopes of the Chantry, and there’s an edge in his voice that suggests it’s more than just tinkering that’s kept him up so late.

“I don't suppose…” Dorian hesitates, but his curiosity is going to run roughshod over his manners eventually, so he might as well just let it happen. “I mean, this may be slightly rude but -“

A laugh, and then the Herald’s hand is all but resting in his own, palm up and fingers splayed for inspection.

“Vivienne prodded at me for an hour before declaring me ‘fascinating but fruitless at this point, darling,’” Thierry says, managing a fair impression of her icy disappointment. “I imagine Solas took a good deal more time, but I was somewhat busy being unconscious.”

“What about the other mages?”

“A dozen requests or so, at least. Cassandra says I’m off-limits. Which just means they’re asking her twice as often.”

Dorian traces the pale scar, like the remnant of a lightning spell gone bad, jagged white from the web of his thumb across the center of his palm, erasing all other lines. He can see the energy there, a thin, flickering hint of green - dormant, or as close as it must get. It doesn’t seem to cause him much pain, at least. Small favors. 

“I’m tempted to go to one of those Rivaini palm readers, just to see what they’ll say.”

“You…” Dorian says slowly, pretending to examine what remains of the Herald’s life line. “… are… doomed. What a pity. Well, that will be ten gold. Unless you’d like to double-or-nothing for a better opinion.”

Why is he this interested in trying to lighten the mood? Other than the fact that the Herald looks so tired. Or that he has rather nice hands, long-fingered and strong and oh Dorian, _don’t_. For once, just save yourself the trouble. 

It’s only going to hurt. You know that. You already know how much this hurts.

He keeps studying for a while, though there’s nothing much to see and even less to understand. Dorian can sense the mark, of course, but other than ‘power’ and ‘lots of it,’ it's like nothing he's ever seen. He’d rather not think about the odds against gaining such an ability _and_ the power to keep it under control. Alexius wasn't lying, this all stinks of some spectacular magic-fueled debacle - but there’s a certain point where ‘luck’ and ‘divine intervention’ have to meet just to explain how the man is still alive.

“I’d rather like to be there, when you go to close the Breach.” Dorian says. “Do feel free to keep me in the dark, though, on any pesky, confidential details. I can’t imagine how my years of experience could be any help whatsoever.”

“I thought I heard you and Cassandra having it out near the war room.” Thierry says. “I’m more than happy to sum up the grand plan, if you like.” He lifts a hand, as if shielding them from an imaginary audience, each word in a slow, mock whisper. “ _I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing_.”

He’s afraid. The Herald’s laughing, but there’s real fear in his eyes. Dorian wonders what it means - if he missed it before, or that he’s allowed to see it now.


	4. Chapter 4

“It’s strange. You’re a bit like looking into a mirror, really. A mage, and noble-born, even.” Dorian smirks. “I mean, obviously a less handsome and successful mirror - and how _do_ you explain those shoulders? Didn’t anyone tell you that mages are supposed to be-“

“Dainty?”

“Lithe. Elegant. Graceful.”

“Oh. Breakable.” Thierry says, and ducks, laughing, at the spark of lightning that plinks harmlessly behind his absurdly broad shoulders. The Herald’s not exactly Qunari-size, but give the past a turn and it’s easy for Dorian to imagine him in Templar steel. “I’m a Trevelyan. It’s kind of what we do. Descended from thunderstorms and mountain ranges and men who punch great bears for fun. Or marry them. Go back far enough and the family tree gets a bit obscure.”

“Are there many of you stumbling around the Circles, then?”

They split up families here, in the south, he’s fairly certain of that. Mage children from the same line are tossed off in different directions, rather than keeping blood relations in the same place. Of course, most of the siblings Dorian knew back home spent a good deal of time trying to murder their way up the line of succession. He doesn’t have many regrets about being an only child. 

“I’m the first mage anyone can remember, on either side. A bit of a surprise for all involved.”

He can’t tell anything by the Herald’s tone, but Dorian should probably step cautiously. No telling how far is too far, and they don’t celebrate that sort of thing here. “Was it… bad, with your family?”

“What? My magic? No one was angry, if that’s what you mean. I was rather lucky, all the way around.”

Dorian tries not to make a face, he really does.“Sent away to be locked up for life with an armed guard? Yes, that’s the kind of good fortune we all can aspire to.”

Thierry shrugs. “It was close to home, and some of the “armed guard” were rather easy on the eyes. A lot can be said for a nice suit of armor.” 

If they all looked a bit more like the Commander, Dorian has to admit, he’d be tempted to lock the door himself. 

The dark curtain of his hair hides the Herald’s face, as leans forward to study some bit of text. He’s traded staves for shards at the moment, those odd bits of who-knows-what that they’ve pried out of the Hinterlands. No saying what they’re good for, other than that the Venatori want them so it’s much more satisfying if they don’t get any. Someday, Dorian might be able to stop thinking about seeing Alexius’ name on the order to butcher - no, worse than that, worse than even that - the very definition of helpless men and women. 

They’d approached the first skull warily enough, and after discovering the origin of those grim artifacts no one had felt much like finding the next, whatever their worth. The Herald had paused a moment, and Dorian remembers watching him lean down, touching the skull so lightly, and he’d whispered a few words - apology or polite request or simple recognition, now that these were not just some ancient bones repurposed but the sign of another life lost, one more victim of all this madness. The Oculara remain where they are for the moment, so that dismantling them does not inspire some attempt to recreate them, but they have been marked, and when this is all over they can be buried with the proper rites.

It was nothing impressive, nothing like closing a Rift or staring down a Pride Demon, but when Dorian hears others speak of the Herald in hushed, awed tones, he thinks of that that simple benediction, and fingers brushing gently over bone.

Of course, any real research into the shards will have to wait. All their efforts are currently aimed toward finding a way to close the Breach, the mood not nearly so grim now that it seems possible without another mountain of bodies to make it happen. Nearly all of that knowledge comes from the mages themselves - Haven has painfully few books at their disposal, most gathering efforts being turned to frivolous items like food and weapons. A not-unsurprising number of Circle mages had pulled a few of their favorite tomes with them when they’d fled, though, and those are gathered now in a makeshift library in their camp, along with what seems an ever-increasing pile on the Herald’s table.

Dorian can’t help but be reminded of his own scholarly days, running with a pack of what he’d thought were like-minded intellectuals, debates of history and magical theory and how things ought to be. It had been such a short span of time, really, though in the moment it might as well have been forever. He was so proud of them, and what he thought they would bring the world - something new, something _better_. 

Until the demands of family and legacy had dropped like a bomb in their midst, melting even the best of his friends down into the same indistinguishable mass. Devoting their lives to a system that did nothing but perpetuate itself. Bleak is the kindest word Dorian can think of to describe it.

Oh, the fallout from that had been a thing to see, trying to argue his friends away from success and stability. A series of increasingly excruciating arguments in vast front parlors, so that no corner of the estate might miss the show. He is a talented mage, no question of that, but if Dorian could call down power the way he’d immolated all his bridges, he’d be halfway set to ruling the universe.

“I believe that you were going to tell me about a ruin beneath a ruin that you studied for a season, near the border of the Anderfels?”

A trip more memorable for the amount of near disasters than any actual knowledge accrued. Dorian remembers that expedition mainly for their guide, a merciless, grizzled bastard of a scholar who’d actually been quite knowledgeable, at least in those brief moments he hadn’t been scrambling to keep the elite sons and daughters of Tevinter’s finest from feeding themselves to varghests.

“Is it to be _another_ interrogation, then? My, but you are dedicated.”

The Herald isn’t always available - even this late the man can still be ensconced in the war room with his advisors - but when he is here Dorian has yet to be turned away. The guards don’t even bother stopping him now, though they still remember to scowl. Thierry is amusingly eager to listen to stories of his life in Tevinter to the last detail, with question upon question even when Dorian thinks he’s being quite thorough - what the Circles were like, his studies, the special assignments and field exploration. Dorian’s only had to skip over the one or two times his father had walked in on him being… educated by a particularly fetching private tutor.

High marks. In all subjects.

“I’d apologize, but I wouldn’t mean it. You said it yourself, Tevinter’s where the history comes from. I doubt I’ll have a chance like this again.”

Dorian tips back in his chair, stretching out. “‘So what _did_ you do when the sky cracked open, Pavus?’ Well, I sat around explaining in detail just how interesting I am while being praised for it, as usual. A shame it all had to happen in an icebox.”

“Don’t let them lie to you, that you get used to it.” Thierry makes a face. “Ostwick had winters cold as anywhere. I lived my whole life there and I still hate this. Free mage nothing, once the snows hit the Templars couldn’t get us out into the courtyards with a prybar.”

He imagines a flock of southern mages, all huddled together like disgruntled birds, the way a northern squall in the rainy season could send nearly everyone scuttling for cover, magic or no. A bit difficult to cast when it’s raining up one’s nose.

“Are you doing all right, then? Otherwise?”

Dorian wonders whose question that is, the man or the Herald, or if it makes any difference. Not a single one yet that seems anything less than honest curiosity.

“I helped melt a few annoying snowdrifts for the merchants, and made sure no one fell through the pond. Exceedingly vital Inquisition business that did double duty toward improving my reputation. I can almost convince myself they’re not spitting in my food.” As if it would make much difference. The Imperium had ruled, even this far south, and yes it’s been a while but how have these people never heard of _spices_?

“No one’s actually… ’ Thierry frowns. “If anything does happen, you will let me know?”

Dorian waves away his concern. “No reason to worry, Herald. I did manage to get myself all the way out here mostly in one piece.”

“It’s not about doubting your competence. It’s tactical. I need to keep everything I can here above the board, as much as possible. Half the problems in the Circles were all the rumors of ugly behavior. We’ve got too many people here holding too many grudges to let a dozen secret wars break out, even the petty ones. _Especially_ the petty ones.” 

“I did notice a bit of… commotion earlier. It seemed to die down quick enough.” 

The tide of refugees hasn’t ebbed, and Dorian’s caught more than one flicker of magic coming through the gates, the free mages’ side of camp with a few more faces every morning than had been there the night before. Word has spread fast about the mage Herald and a safe place where no one’s getting killed for lighting a fire the easy way. The Inquisition’s been incorporating the free mages wherever they can throughout Haven - there isn’t much choice, not enough hands otherwise - though it’s been mostly a campaign of small gestures, with the healers leading the way - Show Them You’re Useful and Maybe They’ll Like You. 

The latest little spat had started just after midday. Dorian saw the flare of magic - spirit-based, if he had to guess, not necessarily even dangerous - and then raised voices, and the sound of drawn steel. A moment later, and the Herald and the Commander were converging on the center of the disturbance. Dorian had tried to get closer, but the crowd was large and more guards had come and there’d been nothing much to see once everyone involved had moved into one of the larger tents. Things had calmed, though there’d been no sign of Thierry or Cullen until well past sunset. 

“A small conflict between some mages and Templars who used to share a Circle. The situation here is… incredibly fragile. The Commander wasn’t happy with my choice at Redcliffe, and I can’t really blame him. I think a few other people would have greatly preferred if we’d been able to skim a few mages off the top and cut the rest free - just left them to die.” Thierry grimaces. “I’m not saying that Fiona didn’t go and make the most idiotic, short-sighted, incomprehensible-“ He growls, sighs, tries again. “I hardly wanted to _reward_ her for betraying the King of Ferelden, for single-handedly proving that if you give us half a chance, we’re just as shit as everyone’s always - but if I went and conscripted them, it would have been as good as a vote for Chantry rule, and that’s…. just not going to work anymore.” 

“You and the Commander seem to get along well, regardless.”

Whatever Cullen might claim to be, it’s clear his ‘former’ Templar status doesn’t mean much to most, certainly not those who look to him for guidance, and with few other Templars interested in talking.

“I’m as surprised as anyone, believe me.” Thierry says. “Ostwick isn’t that far away - Kirkwall would have been our sister-Circle if the Knight-Commander hadn’t locked down all the mages as tight as she did. We still heard things. You heard a _lot_ of things about Kirkwall. No one seems to know how he ended up there, especially after Ferelden - but then, you heard a lot of things about Ferelden too.” 

Dorian’s had a very short summary of the Fifth Blight and its attendant catastrophes. Once they’d hit the part about the demon summoning, it was fairly easy to fill in the blanks on his own.

“Cullen was too young for Knight-Captain, and not even a Marcher. Obviously the Knight-Commander thought he’d be easy to manipulate - it sounds like Meredith spent years knocking down anyone she couldn’t control, putting up puppets in their place. Even the Champion’s sister ended up in the Gallows. But Cullen says they were allies - Varric says they were even friends. I’ve heard from mages who were there, or knew those who were - by the end of it, it sounds like he was damn near the only one holding that place together. Everyone says that you wanted him on your side, if there was trouble. That he never blamed the mage first - he looked for the truth, even when it was easier not to, even when he was _told_ not to. I heard he pulled Templars for abusing their authority, until the Knight-Commander overruled him. He could have pushed through the Right of Annulment, even after what happened with Meredith - especially after, maybe. Cullen could have slaughtered everyone that was left, and he didn’t.”

“… and _that_ , children, is what we call a recommendation.”

Thierry laughs. “Quite. Welcome to the great Mage-Templar war. No opinion too stupid to be waved from the ramparts. If we can talk out our problems without killing each other on sight, it’s cause for grand celebration.”

Dorian’s seen this sort of ground-down weariness before, usually from some poor bastard beating their head against the wall that is the Magisterium. Alexius didn’t always fight the good fight- sometimes he argued for what was merely _sane_ , what served best to keep the Imperium from slowly crumbling away - and those measures rarely did any better than the rest.

“We proposed sending the youngest apprentices and the mages who wish to return to the Circle at Montsimmard, but the rest of the them refused to even consider it. I think they’re afraid we’re trying to split them in two, so it’s easier to ‘deal with’ the ones who don’t want to go back. So now we’ve got to make certain that the ones who are here are getting taught - and I figure as long as we’re doing that, we should just open it up to everyone. Mages and non-mages alike, anyone who wants to know what it’s all about. Maybe if more people understand the basic principles, what mages can and can’t do, what magic is really like, they won’t be so afraid.” 

Minrathous may be a sack of rabid jackals on a good day, but Dorian has no illusions about how long he’d last inside a southern Circle. He’s heard the term ‘good mage’ thrown around more than once, not in a kindly tone. Of course it’s not about actually doing good - it means the sort of mage the Chantries approve of, little to do with blood magic and more about a certain sort of timidness. A nameless, all-pervasive fear of themselves, a shame that puts his back right up. 

Dorian has never been afraid of demons - of course using them is anathema, a terrible way to gain power with an insane amount of risk attached - but he has never felt the need to grant them even more authority than they deserve. The mere thought of them doesn’t inspire the same all-consuming dread that so many here - mages, Templars, everyone - seem to take for granted. Jumping at the shadows of demons even when they’re nowhere to be found, so terrified of even learning about what they don’t understand that their ignorance does as much damage as anything called from the Fade. 

Ambition is the problem, greed and shortsighted, arrogant selfishness are the problems, and you could erase magic entirely from the world and be no better off for it. 

“I keep meaning to ask,” Thierry says, interrupting his silent tirade, “have you ever actually been on the receiving end of a Righteous Strike?”

Dorian knew about this before he’d crossed the border, southern Templars with a bit more bite to them than their northern contemporaries.

“I did ask the Commander for a demonstration. He gave me the oddest look.”

“I can only imagine.” Thierry drums his hand absently against the table, carefully choosing his words. “It’s not like having a barrier get dispelled out from under you. It’s… hard to describe. A gut punch, is the best way I can explain it, and if they catch you mid-cast in a large enough spell it can be even worse. I’ll get someone to walk you through basic Templar strategy - you should at least know what it’s like, as long as you’re slumming it here with us barbarians. Luckily, most Templar attacks are fairly short range, and similar to ours - if they have poor concentration to start with, or you can keep them off-balance, it’ll work to your advantage. It’s harder, but if you can time it so you’re not casting when they try to stop you, you still lose the magic but it doesn’t land quite so hard - and then they’ll assume you’re defenseless. If there’s anything that stays in your favor, it’s that Templars think a mage without magic is just going to panic, that we can’t still be dangerous.”

The number of bladed staves on the wall behind him no longer seems quite as excessive, though Dorian doesn’t much like the thought of how much the Herald seems to know about all this.

“… did they do that to you, at Ostwick?”

“Once or twice.” Dorian’s eyes narrow, but Thierry doesn’t seem troubled. “It never meant - Ostwick was all right. It was the younger Templars, mostly. The new ones, nervous and jumpy and not sure what Circle life was all about. An apprentice pops a wobbly fireball and they’d flatten half the room before they even realized it. I think it scared them as bad as anyone.”

A knock at the door reminds Dorian there’s a world outside this room - he’s growing quite comfortable here, which is a tactical _faux pas_ for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that the more the Herald talks the more Dorian likes him, and the less likely anyone else in Haven will appreciate that.

It’s one of Leliana’s agents, and Thierry hands over the shard, to be bundled away for whatever passes for safekeeping in the middle of nowhere.

“You can tell her I have some ideas on how to go forward, but we’ll talk more tomorrow. Is everything quiet out there?”

“Yes ser, sky and land alike.”

Dorian sees the Herald relax, the last of the day’s worries finally put to bed. He imagines that somewhere out there, the Commander is breathing a similar sigh of relief.

“That’s what I like to hear. Good night.”

“Evening, your Worship.”

The door closes, and when Dorian waves an absent hand to stoke the nearest fire he’s surprised to see Thierry watching, with a small smile both wry and sad. 

“I’m never going back. I can’t tell you what it felt like, when I realized it was true. Vivienne looked at me and saw a Loyalist, because I’m not out there howling for freedom - but I’m not on her side. At its best, the Circle was an obligation - I _wanted_ to be out, living in the world, seeing what was out there. But the only way I could see, to get from there to here… well, I suppose this is what it looks like. War and chaos and death, for a whole lot of people who just happened to be in the way. I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t support it. Except it all happened anyway - that price has been paid, and I can’t change it, or bring anyone back. The only thing I can do - Maker, there’s so much I can _do_ , so much good we can all do out here in the world.” Thierry’s voice has dropped low, not quite a whisper. Dorian doubts he’s even aware of doing so, and wonders if he might be the very first one to hear this particular confession. “I _like_ it here. I’m not going back.”

 _… I wouldn’t let them take you._

The real problem with those damned Tevinter sensibilities, that all-consuming fervor - it tends to reach its own conclusions from the oddest places. Tedious details like survival are no match against aesthetic virtues - the brightness of the stars. A drop of wine arcing slowly down the edge of a glass. The Herald’s profile, edged in firelight, with no idea that Dorian gives a damn at all.

“I’ve already promised Solas that I’ll look the other way, if he needs a running start. If we close the Breach and save the world and things inevitably go south… you’ll probably want to go back north. At speed.”

“Herald, I hardly look my dashing best when I’m in retreat.”

Thierry shakes his head. “Dealing with the Venatori is what you’re here for, and I’m grateful for that. The rest of this is our stupid problem to solve, and I… honestly, I don’t know how many more people I can see die for nothing.”

Dorian hasn’t gone to the Breach himself yet, the remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, though he can’t say he’s looking forward to it. As it all-too-often works with magic, the Breach is a fascinating and complicated puzzle surrounded by the very worst sort of consequences.

“Did you lose many people at Ostwick?”

“No.” Thierry says, but pauses. “At least… Maker, I hope not. Leliana’s still having trouble getting word through. We had a few… ugly incidents at the start, but for the most part it seemed safer for all of us to stick together. Our Knight-Commander is… was a very sensible man. A good man. He said that any mage who wished to leave was free to go, walk in the Maker’s light and all - but he had taken a vow to protect the Circle and he wasn’t about to give that up, as long as he was needed. So most of us stayed, Templars and mages both. We had to protect the apprentices, and there were so many others with nowhere else to go. When we received word about the Conclave, the Knight-Commander asked me to accompany him. He thought my title might hold some weight for our cause, let the Divine know we were committed to peace.”

“I don’t know quite how to ask-”

“Was it maybe not the best idea to bring everyone important to the same place, given what happened in Kirkwall?” Thierry nods. “Oh, we knew. The Knight-Commander, he thought it was a bad idea. He thought it would end with blood, even if nobody could have known… but we had to try.”

“You never thought of going home?”

“If I had, it would have only proved that I didn’t belong there. I’m a Trevelyan. Believe it or not, this is another one of those things we do. If I hadn’t been a mage I would have gone to the Chantry. It didn’t matter that I was, because it didn’t change my purpose. Trevelyans _serve_ , just as Our Lady served, with all that we are, however it is we’re called upon to do so. That I’m the ‘Herald’ doesn’t make it different than any other day. Andraste didn’t need to choose me - I should already know what I’m for.” He lifts his hand, the thin ribbon of light flickering like veilfire. “This? Believe me, if my father were here he’d say it was high honor. I should be grateful that I was given such an opportunity to serve, and just get on with it.”

“Holidays at home must have been so terribly whimsical.”

Thierry snorts. “Bann Trevelyan is a man of… uncompromising principle. ‘Easy to respect. Difficult to befriend. Impossible to impress’ - and that’s from someone who knew him better than anyone. If I should seem irrationally selfless, it’s because that’s the only part of this that makes any sense. At least I know what I should do.” He rubs his wrist, circling it with his other hand, and sighs. “It isn’t _mine_ , this power. It doesn’t belong to me. It was bought by all those people at the Conclave, every person who’s died for all this, for no damned good reason. I owe them to get it right, to make this right. All that sacrifice, it has to mean something, it _has_ to, and I refuse to pretend that just doubling down on what doesn’t work will somehow make anything better.”

“Well,” Dorian says in the silence that follows. “That will certainly sell. The bit about the Conclave was a good touch.”

He’s glad that gets a laugh, instead of being tossed out into the snow.

“I’m sorry, I hardly meant to throw all of this on you like that, it’s just…” Those blue eyes again, focused on him to the exclusion of all else, and Dorian wonders if that’s another trait that runs in the family. It must be terrible fun to be one of their enemies. “Maker, you’re really here. You’re really _real_. A mage from outside our Circles. You’ve never had to apologize for what you are.”

Dorian has never taken a knife to the chest, but he thinks it must feel something like this. A lifetime’s worth of internecine dinner parties are the only thing that keeps his expression anything other than poleaxed. Of all the things for him to say.

“You… might be surprised.” Do change the topic, Dorian, and quickly. “Besides, I’m hardly the only one here who can claim as much. I don’t imagine our elven ally is in the habit of apologizing.”

“Solas? No, I doubt he would - but he seems to prefer a society of one, present circumstances aside.” Thierry shrugs. “I just… pride isn’t always a sin. The lack of it can do just as much damage. It’s… nice to see a mage take some satisfaction in what he can do.”

“I’d be quite happy to introduce you to a few others. It might take you a whole five minutes before you throw yourself out a window to escape.”

“I always figured there had to be at least _one_ of you up there that wasn’t a total bastard. Law of averages and all.”

Dorian could protest that, make an argument for at least a few more of his countrymen, but at this moment he doesn’t quite feel up to waving the flag.

“Careful, Herald. You start thinking I’m a person with feelings and things could get complicated."

“If things get any more complicated, we’ll have to start giving the disasters nicknames.” Thierry rubs at his eyes, his expression turning solemn, almost grim. “On that note, for whatever good it will do, Cassandra did send a copy of my report to Val Royeaux. What happened in Redcliffe. The… other Redcliffe. Venatori, Elder One, Death of the Inquisition - you know, the _nice_ version.” 

Of all that Dorian does dwell over, he’s managed to avoid putting too much energy into pondering that glimpse of the future. It’s over, it never happened and never will, and if he still has some trouble when Sister Leliana comes into view, if there is still that split-second glimpse of a tattered, wretched husk - _‘and mages always wonder why people fear them’_ \- it hardly matters. It isn’t as if they have anything to speak about anyway.

“… that really was it, wasn’t it?” Thierry says, softly. “The End.”

Dorian’s jaw still aches with remembered tension, the utter wrongness of corridor after jagged corridor of red lyrium, eating its way through the world. It wasn’t just a matter of failure, or conquest. It certainly wasn’t any return to the Imperium of old. It wasn’t even a _Blight._ People survived Blights. Whatever this ‘Elder One’ had wanted, Dorian thinks it’s very unlikely that he’d gotten his wish. Yes, to be a god, ruling over the dead and dying in that disintegrating, demon-filled wreck of a world? Oh, what glory.

“I imagine someone, somewhere must have still been fighting.” An optimistic lie. Dorian very much doubts even the Venatori escaped that sort of consequence. He’d seen the sky - what was left to escape to? Was it really _that_ difficult to remember what had lost them the empire in the first place? He can see exactly how it would go in Tevinter, the cascade of panic and sacrifice to one inevitable conclusion.

“One year. Only one year to kill the world. We need to be very careful. I don’t think this is going to end just because we fix a hole in the sky. All the pieces will still be there, waiting to be put together. The magic will always be there.”

“You’re really going to do it, aren’t you?” Dorian certainly chose the right place, or perhaps there really _is_ someone watching. If not quite the Herald’s grand deliverance, then a subtle nudge at the right moment, guiding him to where he can do the most good. “Revolution.”

“It’s already happened, now it’s just about where we go from here.” Thierry says. “We can be strong _and_ safe, mages and Templars both. We can learn to work together, to be better than we are alone. I’m not certain we have the luxury of other options, not anymore. The Order is their own private army now - and an army always needs an enemy to fight.”

Like an entire gathering of free mages on a mountaintop. Haven’s rushing to finish their front-line defenses as quickly as everything else, and that’s not to protect them from bandits. Dorian tries to think of a suitable inspirational response.

“… I don’t suppose there’s any more wine?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. In which there was talking and more talking and far too many Trevelyan headcanons.
> 
> 2\. I wrote this mostly to stave off the midwinter "where is the sun?! WHERE?" and thought maybe... nine-ish people might toss a kudos in the cup? I'm glad if this is entertaining someone other than me? My, there are a lot of you. O.o


	5. Chapter 5

Defeated by a button. How terribly obvious.

Dorian cuts it free of his third attempt at repair, dolefully yanking out the stitching. Rifling through his mental inventory for the thousandth time for any magical means to employ on this terribly simple problem only reminds him how easily it ought to be solved by five seconds and a bit of thread and a needle, even by an Altus with nothing resembling basic survival skills.

No one is perfect. The important part is making sure one’s imperfections only show up in solitude, behind very thick doors. It isn’t as if anyone here cares what he does with his time, and even if they did they won’t believe he wasn’t working on his hair. 

It’s a surprise he can even try to make such cack-handed work of this. Dorian had taken some pains to conceal his final departure, and thought he’d even been able to fool his _amanuensis_. At least until the second day, when he’d found the spare lyrium potions and the small sewing kit tucked into the bottom of his pack. He’d shared his plans with no one, not that he truly believes his father would ever take it out on the household. As if anything or anyone could have stopped him from leaving, after… 

Fifteen minutes, three needle sticks and a good deal more thread later Dorian’s managed a passing job at mending that only looks a wreck when seen from the inside. 

“… but is that poetic irony or thematic cohesion?” He slips his jacket back on. “Do be careful, Pavus, you’re talking to yourself again.”

The knock at the door is a surprise. He has few visitors, and fewer repeat visitors and makes the educated guess. The alchemist stops by now and then to complain about all the alchemy he isn’t doing, with the occasional, oblique insult to Tevinter methodology. Dorian’s rather fond of him.

“Ah, Adan, a bit early for abandoning ship, isn’t-

He stops short, at the sight of the flaming sword on the Templar’s breastplate. Dorian feels a sharp jolt of - not panic, but where he thinks the panic would likely be, if he’d lived here all along. He remembers the Herald’s warning - for all that he’s given them, and all that he’s yet willing to do even Thierry believes it could change in an instant. The people he’s risking his life for would shut him back up in a box the moment he’s no longer useful, and consider it just as much the Maker’s will.

Ah, well. When in doubt, at least start with a smile.

“Good morning,” Dorian says brightly, “… and to what might I owe this honor?”

The woman stands at parade rest, a head shorter than he is, everything about her crisp and professional.

“The Commander was informed that you wished to learn some of the… particulars of Templar abilities.”

The Herald certainly doesn’t let any grass grow under his feet. Dorian has no doubt he’s the one to have pushed this to the fore.

“So, they sent you to knock the mighty Tevinter down a peg or two?” 

He still hasn’t quite got the hang of it in each circumstance, the right balance of confidence and friendliness that doesn’t immediately translate to Punch the Magister in the Face. The woman’s eyes narrow.

“The Commander sent me because I’m the best. If that isn’t acceptable, I’m sure-“

“Perish the thought. I apologize - this is all quite unfamiliar territory to me. I’m not usually in the habit of asking for a beating.”

A gleam of amusement in her eye, and Dorian pounces at the opportunity.

“Oh, so it’s to be like _that_ , is it?”

The Templar doesn’t smile - not quite - but he feels a bit of ice break off the moment regardless.

“If you’d like to follow me, ser. The Commander has set aside a practice area just outside the wall. He thought you’d prefer some privacy.”

“How courteous.”

Now this… could be interesting, and certainly isn’t ringing every alarm bell he has. Dorian knows of a few spells that can wreak havoc on a mage’s mana, though most of them have the downside of equally crippling effects to the caster. Most mages aren’t terribly fond of leaving themselves so vulnerable, and there are suggestions that being too careless can even cause permanent harm. So it’s not the most fertile field of study, although Dorian intends on delving into it a bit further after this. If he survives.

No, he doesn’t really believe the Commander has much intention of killing him in a training accident, though there is the voice at the back of his mind, asking through the still-ringing alarms what possessed him to think this is a good idea, trailing a Templar away from any witnesses, so that she might inflict on him what any mage would find uncomfortable at best. If Cullen wishes to press a point, if he wants to turn this into a show of control or a bit of humiliation, this would certainly be the time. Trust is far rarer than gold in the Imperium - those with power usually see little need to hold back. So a part of him is bracing for it, that she’ll hit him with no warning, that there’s more Templars waiting, some unforeseen ugliness meant to put him in his place.

The small, empty clearing is only slightly underwhelming then, bordered on all sides by high stone walls, out of view from the rest of Haven and perfectly calm. The sun is out, a bit of birdsong off in the distance, rather a lovely day.

“So,” the Templar turns, and there’s something in the way she moves, the way her eyes cut down and to the side for a moment - she’s uncertain too. “What do you need me to do?”

“How would you usually proceed?”

A laugh, short and baffled. “Usually, ser, the mages don’t ask.”

“Well,” Dorian says, “I was told something about a Righteous Strike. Sounds intriguing. How about we start from there?”

“If that’s what you want.” The Templar steadies herself, hands into fists and then relaxed, holding a loose fighting stance - and Dorian can sense it, not quite magic, but close and building. “All right, ser. On the count of three. Just let me know if you have to throw up.”

————————————————

Dorian does not, in fact, throw up. Small victories are still victories.

His first thought is gratitude. Well, no, his first thought is panic and vertigo and more than a little horror, as the power he’s carried all his life, as integral and expected as the beat of his heart drops away to worse than silence - the Herald was understating it a bit, unless that gut punch came from the Maker himself. His second thought is that this is how he dies, if he had walked into it blind and the Templar were advancing on him instead of standing in the same place, waiting. Which is where the gratitude comes in. Dorian can see what the Herald meant about panicking - he’s been sent to one knee but he’s got his staff and there’s a perfectly good blade on it. He could still fight, but not if he’s too busy reaching for the magic that still isn’t there.

Imagine being surrounded by people who could do this whenever they wanted. 

“You all right, ser?” 

Dorian nods, not quite trusting his voice. It feels remarkably close to seasickness, the ground swaying enough that he keeps his arms out a bit for balance as he rises. Hardly a picture of grace, but the Templar doesn’t seem amused at his plight - this is a training drill for her, just of an odder sort. Well, that was a new experience, and he ought to take a step back and breathe and just -

“Hit me again.”

Empirical study, his greatest weakness. It feels like he hasn’t done this for half an age, blowing himself up for science, but Dorian would be be a fool to ignore this opportunity. He takes his time, running the Templar through everything she’s capable of, though he does make sure he’s out of range when she shifts her spell purge to an attack, a chaotic blast of power that shreds the air around her. It isn’t exactly magic, she isn’t calling up anything new, just rerouting what’s already there. Her abilities seem to be roughly split - half techniques for negating magic, the others focused on dealing with demons. He wonders what part of their power comes from training, and what’s from the lyrium - and after getting knocked around a half-dozen more times Dorian starts to see the cracks in the armor, so to speak.

Anything done can be undone. Another one of those Tevinter habits too often taken down ugly avenues, but the general principle has always made sense to him. One of the great joys of living, breaking down mysteries into knowledge and application.

Certainly, Templars are formidable warriors and Dorian would hate to face down a group of them in close quarters, but even her strongest attacks don’t reach further than his longest-range spells and at that distance she can only dispel, not eliminate the problem at the source. By the third Righteous Strike, Dorian’s found a way to at least stay on his feet, even if his vision doubles and blurs and there’s a wicked headache building behind his eyes. He guesses Templars and mages don’t practice together often, if ever. It would be giving up too much of an edge to let the full catalogue of their abilities - and their limitations - be known. 

“All right, then.” Dorian pants, the point of his staff so far in the ground he’ll have to yank it out - _manners, Pavus, don’t slouch_ \- but that instructor never stood in the center of a Holy Smite and kept on his feet. He has a feeling he surprised the Templar a bit with that one, a higher-level spell against both dangerous mages and any summoned creatures and he’d felt the power in him flicker like a flame when it dropped but he could still cast, even so. The mages fear the Templars as equals, and it seems the Templars might very much fear them finding out otherwise. “I think that’s unpleasant enough for one day.”

“Very good, ser.”

He’s winded her, Dorian can see it in the slouch of the Templar's shoulders and the way she’s trying not to show she’s breathing just a little hard. On the way back, he asks all sorts of questions about training and which procedure is learned when, how long does it usually take to master. The way he’d break down any other new school of magic, and her answers are honest if guarded. Dorian wonders what sort of report she’s going to give back to the Commander on all this. Cullen’s hardly a fool, not to notice his curiosity and Dorian doubts it will really sell any better that he’s not picking at the edges of the one tenable form of control these people have over their mages for truly evil reasons - he’s just doing it because he can. 

“I doubt this was your first choice of ways to spend your time. Thank you for-”

He gets an appraising look, and thinks that in some small way, he might have actually managed to impress her.

“The Commander says you’re here to protect the Herald, ser. He says you were there, at Redcliffe. My family lives nearby. If anything I teach you keeps them alive, then I’m your sword.”

Dorian can hardly deny that there is a certain nobility to them, these southern Templars who actually seem to act by the vows they’ve taken. In Tevinter they’re little better than sellswords, milling about until a Magister with enough coin sees fit to throw them at a problem. Hardly a holy calling, and even here there are reasons not to let his view go too rose-colored - but still, there’s something of value there. A reason not to cast aside the Templars entirely, and he can see why Thierry hopes they can endure.

At the gate, Dorian turns toward the village while the Templar no doubt has business with the Commander, but as they move to part she hands him a key.

“Officers mess, up at the main hall. The food’s no better, but it’s where they stuck the hot baths as well. I hear some dwarf even thought up something like a sauna.”

Dorian’s not going to admit to the part of his heart that’s now trilling like a songbird at the thought of even a bit of cobbled-together civilization. Until this little outing, he’s had the magic to burn to keep himself warm but that’s hardly the reason to begrudge other offers. Still, it is a surprising one.

“Are you quite sure that I-“

“Herald’s orders, ser.”

Ah, so it begins. Now the real question, is this a bit of favoritism or simply good resource management? It’s difficult to tell, the Herald keeps an eye on the details, always doing whatever he can to make sure the camp is secure and supplied, and morale as high as he can manage. But the Herald is also very kind, and not one to put image over generosity, even when he ought to. Just because Dorian hasn’t overheard any particular discussion doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened - even if it’s not village gossip yet, that Thierry’s shown him any attention at all will be a matter of note. The more Dorian comes to understand how the rest of Thedas operates, the less and less secure it seems for the Herald to also be a mage. If he wanted to be helpful, the best thing he could do would be to take a large step back. Return this key, and anything it might imply, and then make it a point not to see the Herald this evening, certainly not to look forward to it.

Yes, if he were a better man, Dorian imagines he would do all kinds of things.


	6. Chapter 6

The Herald’s book piles have once again doubled, still with nothing resembling a coherent order. Arcane theory, a dog-eared _Botanical Compendium_ , and a pair of surprisingly rare treatises in relatively-old Tevene that Dorian will be obliged to pilfer the moment the Herald’s back is turned. It must annoy the most devout here to no end, how there’s just no getting around it - all the really interesting books tend to come from the old Imperium, and even here in the southern Circles most mages have some passing familiarity with the language. Anyone with serious scholarly habits is almost certainly fluent - Thierry can read it, Dorian’s certain of that, even if he refuses to be baited into even the shortest of conversations.

“Evening.”

As for what he’s doing now… Dorian pauses, looks, guesses, abandons his first theory and finally drops into what’s quickly becoming ‘his’ seat at the Herald’s table, all the while serenaded by the sound of metal clicking against metal. At least for the moment, he’s stopped mangling perfectly innocent staves.

“It’s like watching a bear try to long divide with a broken abacus. What is it you’re failing to do, exactly?”

“Varric was trying to teach me how to pick a lock. I think I’ve almost - yes! No, wait. No.”

“Not that I don’t admire your tenacity, but I believe that problem _may_ have been solved before.” Dorian snaps his fingers, a shiver of cold spiking briefly at his fingertips. Hit just about any lock with enough ice and it won’t feel much like being a lock anymore.

“It’s nice to learn new things.” Thierry says, jiggling the pick and shaking the lock and scowling to no noticeable benefit. “Speaking of, did you have fun with your Templar, or should I throw you a whole platoon next time?”

“I didn’t vomit. Apparently, this is high praise.”

He’s feeling much better, a long soak and a bit of time to bake putting everything back mostly in its place. Dorian wants more information about the Templars - as much as he can get - but that will likely have to wait until he and the Commander are at least on speaking terms. 

“If you’re curious, the word from the barracks is ‘he don’t look like much, but that Tevinter ponce has it where it counts’.”

Dorian casts his arms wide. “Let us carve it in marble and set it in the city square.”

Being here shouldn’t feel so familiar, certainly not enough that he already has a favorite moment, but here it is - when Thierry looks up from whatever project he’s buried himself in and smiles, as if Dorian’s someone he’s actually been waiting to see. “You look tired.”

“Following your lead, it seems.” The Herald is washed-out and weary, in a way that suggests he’s also been casting more than he ought. “Just how much fun were you having today?”

“First dry run on the Breach. Solas wanted to make sure the mages knew what they were doing, that everyone’s got their positions down. A lot of tinkering with magic that doesn’t exactly scale down to tinkering size. I think it went well enough, though we’ll never really know until we’re there.” 

It’s going to happen very soon, perhaps even by the end of the week. Nothing’s actually ready and even the things that are certainly don’t feel that way. No new information on this ‘Elder One’ or what he’ll do next or how they intend to counter it.

The Mark does seem to shine a bit brighter at the moment, a jagged line trembling with pent-up energy. Thierry lifts his hand, glancing beyond it, to where the Breach would be without a roof and a wall in the way.

“If I die, does it just… go away, do you think?”

“Probably. Or… perhaps not.”

“Bow to the unerring wisdom of our Tevinter betters.”

“Oh, hush. You’re hardly an exact science. Alexius didn’t just want to kill you, he wished to write you out entirely. The mark might very well remain, even after death.” Dorian says, ignoring the unexpected, unwanted twinge at that thought - after death. It’s hardly beyond the realm of possibility, he can’t honestly say surviving this adventure had seemed the most likely option even before he’d seen the real stakes, and the Herald has even less reason to think so. 

“So, if I do end up dead, make sure to get my arm back, at least.” Thierry says with ruthless cheer. “Maybe at the elbow. Bull would know the best way.” He lifts his glowing hand, and raises his middle finger for good measure, grinning. “Do it just like that. Strap it to a pike and save the day.”

“An inspiringly gruesome image. Of course, you could save us all that trouble and just stay alive.”

“Doing my best.”

In those last few months back home, Dorian had put some honest effort into being a proper washed-up drunkard, but overall it seems an excruciatingly dull affair with little to recommend it. He much prefers this, continuing to pick his way through the mismatched stacks scattered across the Herald’s table - a copy of Petrarchius’ _Thedosian Astronomy_ littered with bookmarks, Mareno’s _Dissertation on the Fade_ , as much fun for the Senior Enchanter’s obvious loathing of his audience as his insights, and a study of Primal magic with nearly the same naughty limericks scribbled in the margins as the one he used in Quarinus, because some things do not change, no matter the Circle.

The sound of metal on metal shifts from a tapping to a short, squealing snap as the lock finally gives way. “Yes. _Yes_! Now to begin my new life of petty crime.”

“You’re the Herald of Andraste.” Dorian says. “Preening over lesser accomplishments is a bit gauche. Besides, you’re not going to get those shoulders through any windows. I don’t know how you manage half the doors.”

“I’ll _turn sideways_. You have a remarkably limited imagination for a Magister.”

“Altus.”

“What I said.” 

As if annoyed at being excluded from the conversation, the Mark suddenly flares up, a few green arcs sending sparks cascading across the table. Dorian leans back sharply as the Herald hisses out a curse, clutching his hand to his chest. 

“Sorry, it’s been… fussy since this afternoon. I didn’t get you, did I?” Even when Thierry’s not smiling it always seems just about to happen. “I’d hate to think what you’d cost to replace.”

_If we were in Minrathous, I would have had you already._

Oh, is it time for the incredibly unhelpful thoughts Dorian cannot unthink? 

Three minutes, forty-seven seconds from introduction to _introduction_ , his personal best. He only knows because someone at those particular festivities had declared themselves timekeeper. 

It’s so easy when it’s meaningless. A handful of moments pretending at the preliminaries and another handful to do the deed and then it’s laughter and the clink of glasses and another round of stale hors d’oeuvres. As long as no one makes eye contact, it’s practically an accident, like it never really happened at all. 

Dorian tried to make do. He really had. At the very beginning, it had almost seemed like _fun_ , and when he’d come to realize that illicit transgressions were not all that exciting with nothing else on the horizon, it was just one more problem to solve himself out of. He’d ended up where most did, with the highest class of courtesan his coin could buy. The best in the world, gorgeous, talented and absolutely discreet and all he could think was how terribly, terribly empty it all was. Who cared what he said or did when they were paid to find him delightful?

He’d done his best to get through it, until he’d realized that’s all he was doing, getting through, and then he… couldn’t anymore. How his friends had laughed, when word had gotten round of that - _‘poor Dorian, can’t get his ego off’_ \- and how they’d pitied him right to the last, mystified that he couldn’t just make it work. The shame he’d bring down on name and family for this, for _this_ \- but what is he, what is left of him if everything that matters means nothing to the world and - _‘oh come now, Pavus. Let’s not be tedious.’_

“… Dorian? You all right?”

He’s staring, and the Herald is watching him stare and neither of these are good things.

“Yes, of course… so what _does_ it feel like, exactly? Closing a rift?”

A terrible segue, but he has been meaning to ask. Thankfully, the Herald isn’t one to pry, too polite to acknowledge the blatant deflection.

“Awesome? In the truest sense of the word. Almost like I’ve gone and tapped into… have you ever grabbed a bad potion, with too much lyrium in the mix?” 

Dorian’s made a few horrifically bad versions himself, actually. Experiments with old recipes that had been set aside for good reason, and though there had been a few minor successes, he’d gone blind a few too many times to make it worth an extended effort.

“It’s a bit like that, with a potion the size of… Lake Calenhad. Nearly threw me off my feet the first few times I sealed a rift, and even that temporary patch we’ve got on the big one knocked me out for the day.”

The question no one’s actually asked, if it might very well kill him to seal the Breach for good. The Herald must have considered it, and the fact that there’s no other choice is not exactly consolation. He seems to be a man of faith, at least, though Dorian has often wished for more comfort there than he’s found.

“It’s funny, before this I never much focused on studying the Fade. Solas would be so disappointed - actually, I _know_ he’s disappointed, but it’s different when you’re a mage alone, out in the woods and only risking yourself. The Templars tended to get nervous, if we started pushing too far past the standard lessons, everything everyone knew was mostly safe. The Fade just seemed like… a pile of demons and broken history and too much risk for the bother.”

Dorian has none of those limitations, no Templars ‘tsking’ at his every move or Senior Enchanters counseling prudence, but he also had none of the ‘safeties’ many of his fellow mages relied on. No one bound and gagged and ready to be thrown in the way of unforeseen consequence. If he makes a mistake, he’ll pay his own price. Dorian’s always considered it the path to creative solutions, instead of just easy ones, and one more reason for him to work his hardest to upstage everyone else. Spite is hardly an uncommon motivation in Tevinter, but it still served him well.

“Did I mention Bull’s lieutenant wants to teach our mages how to be better archers?” 

“I do so love it when you try to use words.”

“He said the Chargers have some strategies to help them fight more effectively with the other soldiers.” Thierry says. “If mercenaries can figure out how not to be afraid of mages, it can’t be _that_ impossible for the rest of us. Do you see a missive from West Hill over there? Josephine wants me to read it or sign it or burn it or… something.” 

It’s hard to tell exactly which precariously perched pile he’s waving a hand at. If they do survive all this, Dorian’s going to scold the man into some proper sense of order.

“You are worse than a dragon on his trove, Herald.”

He shuffles through the one closest to him. A few coins, a rough-carved Mabari figure, a map of the Storm Coast that he takes the time to refold properly, while Thierry pretends not to notice, and then he hears something clink, knocked from the pile and toppled into the light. At first he thinks it’s a blank rune - the Herald has ambitions, if currently too few enchanters to make good on them - but as he takes a closer look Dorian realizes he’s never seen anything like it, exactly. A sort-of hourglass-shape, protected inside a raised metal circle and that’s… well, of course Dorian knows blood magic when he sees it but there’s only a few things it can be here, and right out in the open.

“Is this your…?”

“Phylactery, yes. The Knight-Commander gave it to me, just before we left for the Conclave. He said the fact that I was walking in there with him ought to prove he didn’t need to hold onto it anymore. A souvenir of sorts. I’m amazed it even survived. I should be more careful with it, but it makes me feel… rather decadent not to. Once this business with the Breach is over, I’m going to give it to Cullen, where everyone can see me do it. A gesture of good faith.”

“You said the Seeker has never given you a guarantee, what comes next when all this is at an end.” Dorian’s seen good men fall for noble causes, and disappear as if they never were. It doesn’t seem the sort of thing that could happen here, but then it probably never does to anyone in the middle of it. 

“I think it’s safe to say I’m in too deep for an exit strategy. I’m the figurehead. If I don’t commit first, no one else is going to bother. If they bother anyway.” Thierry says. “Maybe the phylacteries can be a start, some middle ground between being locked up and having mages running around with no oversight. At least if the Templars know where we are - if they still have a way of tracking us down if we go wrong, why not let us live where we please? Raise families? Have _real_ lives. Start us at the Circles, that’s fine, training isn’t exactly optional. Make it an apprenticeship like any other, and then afterward we can check in with the Templars as often as they want - but I don’t want to be anyone’s holy burden. Not anymore. It isn’t good, not for us or for them.” Thierry flips the phylactery between thumb and forefinger, sends it skittering across the table like a spun coin to topple against a stack of books. “Maker, please don’t let me fuck this up.” 

“It may not mean much, considering the source, but I do applaud you for the effort.” If the Herald should succeed? If there could be some stable, middle ground between captivity and tyranny for mages throughout Thedas, how could that not change things in the Imperium as well?

“Cassandra did say she overheard you talking to a few of the apprentices the other day.”

Dorian would wince, if he were the sort of person who did that kind of thing. No one is served by rumors of a Tevinter mage chatting up southern apostates, and he’s done his best to steer clear of that entire side of the camp, but when he’d overheard a group of young mages completely failing to grasp the very basics of Entropic theory, he’d felt duty bound to step in. What he’d intended as a quick overview had somehow turned into a twenty-minute lecture and he is hardly surprised it hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“Merely trying to correct a few atrocious assumptions. It’s more of a reflex than a choice, really. In the future, I’ll do my best not-“

“I hoped you’d consider talking to them more often, actually.” The Herald says, ever the perpetual surprise. “I might go along with you at first, so they’ll know they can ask you questions without breaking any rules. Later on, when I’m not there, you can tell them all the things they secretly want to know, maybe educate some of those who are absolutely certain that life for every mage in the Imperium is free of care and woe.” 

Dorian laughs. “I doubt your Chantry would trust me to-“

“ _I_ trust you. The Inquisition needs your perspective and the Chantry isn’t really here to have an opinion either way. If it feels too much like a compliment, please remember that you’re the only Tevinter mage anyone on this mountain has ever known who hasn’t tried to kill us all, and I’m low on other options. Or _any_ options, come to think of it.”

“Now that’s the sort of flattery to turn a man’s head.” Dorian frowns. “Do take care, Herald, or they’ll be convinced I’m snaring you into my wicked web of insidious machinations.”

“Hurry it up, if you don’t mind?” Thierry says, reaching for the nearest staff, carefully checking the fittings. “Being evil’s got to be easier than this.”

“I’m only making the point that I understand how… complicated your position is at the moment. You do have my gratitude for the awful food and the hideous weather and the roof that only leaks when I’m trying to sleep, and I’m perfectly happy to speak all sorts of heresy to whomever you like, but if you should ever have to keep your distance, I won’t think the less of you for it.”

“He’s too busy judging me for the shirt.”

“… and the boots. And the belt. Please just give up and let Ambassador Montilyet dress you in the future.” No, Dorian doesn’t want to let go of this at all, but it’s going to happen anyway and he will live with it when it does. The Herald’s easy companionship is every bit as warm as the fire, and thaws things inside of him in much more dangerous ways, but whatever has been said about the spoiled, strutting cockerel of House Pavus, Dorian is quite well versed in not getting what he wants.

“The Magister says all this now, as if it’s not going to be dumped on him the minute I go to close the Breach and it all goes horribly wrong.”

“Altus - and I sincerely doubt I’ll have much of a place in this Inquisition without you here to explain me away. I am a mage from Tevinter, not a leader and certainly not a hero.”

Thierry shakes his head in protest. “You saved the world. Twice. You altered Alexius’ spell in that first attack, and then you got us back to this time in one piece. See? Twice. One more than me.”

An irritating bit of fact, and Dorian feels surprisingly uneasy as he tries and fails to dodge around it. 

“Technically true, perhaps… but you did save it first.”

Thierry snorts. “If we’re delving into technicalities, my _hand_ saves the world. The rest of me is just along for the ride. You shouldn’t sell yourself short.” 

“Why, Herald, it seems you’ve mistaken me for someone who knows what humility feels like.” 

Before this argument can get any more absurd, Dorian hears a distant bell rings once, and -surprisingly - again.

“ _Venhedis_ , it can’t be that late, can it? I shouldn’t encourage these bad habits of yours.” He stands up. “It’s one thing if you’re dead on your feet, but quite another if they’re blaming me for it.”

“… wait?”

Thierry is quick to get up, though Dorian has barely moved toward the door.

“Before you go, I wondered… I… I had a personal question. Or more of a… favor, I suppose.” 

Well, now. 

“I tremble with anticipation.”

Thierry rolls his eyes, but he still seems unexpectedly… skittish. What’s all this, then?

“I’m not even certain you do this sort of- or how - I mean, I don’t know if…“ Oh dear, but the Herald is absolutely _delicious_ when he’s unsure. “… and you don’t have to say yes, of course. I just-”

Dorian watches the pendulum swing of the crystal at the top of his staff, as Thierry passes it slowly from hand to hand, looking anywhere but at him. It’s so absurdly suggestive he can’t possibly mean anything by it, though his expression isn’t quite nervousness and is a lot more like… wanting. Wanting something very, very badly. 

“I wondered if you had some time, before… whatever happens, I thought that maybe we could… there are a few places outside Haven that might work. I mean, we wouldn’t be casting anything dangerous, obviously, and I wouldn’t want to…”

Dorian finally gets it.

“Goodness me! Our great and powerful Herald wishes to _duel_ with the Tevinter Altus?! What a truly awful idea. One can only imagine what his council would say.”

It’s a simple enough request, though he can think of very few things he wouldn’t be willing to give to see the Herald look so uncomplicatedly happy.

“I’ll promise them I won’t do it again. Which will be a lie.”

Dorian draws himself up proudly, as any Altus ought when faced with such a challenge.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Herald. I don’t tend to leave enough left of my opponents for a second round.”

Did that sound as thoroughly filthy as it does in his head? As if this whole conversation hasn’t gleefully skipped its way to the very cliff’s edge of propriety - but Thierry’s wicked grin doesn’t make him look much like the Herald of anything, either.

“I’d say we could go now, but it’s dark and I’d prefer to see it when I stomp you flat.”

“At least you’re from a southern Circle, so the overwhelming failure won’t be such a surprise.”

“Says the man who lost his empire to Fereldens.”

“Technically still part of the Imperium at the time.” He laughs. “Completely different. You should be ashamed to even make the comparison.”

Dorian is the one who should be ashamed, after all, stepping out into a dark that isn’t so dark and a cold that hardly feels cold, all wrapped up in Thierry’s enthusiasm. It’s not his reputation he’s damaging here - no one cares who he is, other than the mage they already loathe, but it does the Herald no favors to make him more human, not like this. No one needs to think about the Tevinter whispering in his ear, when he already has the hopes and fears of half a world on his shoulders. 

Still, it’s not like they’ve done anything yet, and they could both easily be dead this time next week and there still is that pesky question of what the Herald even _wants_ \- and Dorian won’t but if he does, and he _won’t_ and if he _does_ and when he does… 

He needs to keep this one for as long as he can, the last bottle of the best year. It never changes, the ending is always too swift and always the same, but the anticipation is sweet enough that Dorian can pretend he doesn’t care.


	7. Chapter 7

He ought to feel more out of place, in this unfamiliar land of unfamiliar people, but it feels so good just to be out and _doing_ instead of driving himself half-mad with half-made plans that Dorian hasn’t bothered worrying about the rest. One benefit of already being a pariah, it’s a bit difficult to subtract from zero. At least here he can have any excuse he wants for not fitting in, and Dorian’s been far lonelier surrounded by familiar faces than being deliberately ignored by everyone in Haven’s minuscule tavern.

It’s easy enough to keep himself entertained, often chatting with the charming creature behind the bar. Flissa is too conscientious to run at the sight of him and too kind to simply pour a drink on his head. The first few times he’d strolled up she’d visibly steeled herself for the exchange, but as he has yet to do anything so uncouth as raise his voice or summon demons in the privy it seems she’s warmed to him, at least a very little. It’s fun to try his luck elsewhere, giving an honest compliment to the horse master, a bit of banter at the shop. Watching the Revered Mother do her best to pretend he’s just a trick of the light. As if they never tried that back home.

The blacksmith, though… Dorian’s certain he’d have better luck trying to charm the anvil. Usually it isn’t a concern, he has the time to burn on daily tasks, to assume he’ll be shifted to the back of the line when he isn’t forgotten about completely. A minor annoyance at worst - but Dorian should remove the blade from his staff before this little duel with the Herald and given the man’s obvious interest, sooner seems better than later.

It had been late when he’d finally stumbled into bed, and even then sleep had not easy to find. No real surprise why, not with his thoughts full of Thierry’s laughter and unreserved kindness and his earnest determination to do the best he can for this fledgling cause, when he had every right to run screaming. At first, when Dorian had heard about this Herald and the near-impossible power he wielded and his growing mass of followers, it seemed dangerously likely he might have to put down a tyrant-in-the-making. Instead, he finds this - a man with no interest in that power for his own sake, no concern in raising himself up if everyone else can’t come along. That’s a miracle all on its own.

Yet, the Herald is still just a man. One who has more than enough to deal with at the moment, and doesn’t need Dorian providing any more distractions or making demands on his time. After this business with the Breach is done, though, and assuming they all walk away, he intends to take Thierry aside and offer his… sincerest congratulations. Whatever happens next is whatever happens next. 

Of course, as long as he’s waiting there’s no reason for Dorian not to look his very best, especially when what the Herald wants most is - happy coincidence! - also a magnificent way to show off.

He’s always had a lucky streak, even beyond his portion of wealth and title - countless mages in Tevinter can claim as much, and Dorian never considered half of the extremes they’d gladly torn each other apart to reach. Still, he’d thrived for years, wherever he needed to be the moment it would benefit him most to be there. Shining brightest just when the most important instructor or patron had been looking, charming favors and indulgences from those who might just as happily have stuck a knife in him, should the coin have flipped the other way.

It seemed a distressing possibility as of late, that his luck had finally run its course, one more prodigy burned out and forgotten, never quite living up to what he should have been. He probably shouldn’t consider a cataclysmic tear in the fabric of reality as a sign of his returning fortune, but it’s been that kind of a month.

“Ah, Master Harritt. It seems I’m fortunate enough to have caught you in a lull.”

Dorian is almost certain he didn’t set the man’s entire life on fire and then piss his name in the ashes, but Harritt doesn’t seem to agree. No smile. Arms crossed. He might as well be made of the same stuff that’s being hammered over the fire behind him. 

“I was hoping I could have the blade removed from my staff, if you have a moment.” No answer. “Or, I’d be happy to borrow the tools and do the work myself.” Silence. Harritt sucks in a breath between his teeth and finally spits, less than an inch from Dorian’s left boot, not so much a challenge as a declaration of fact. It’s funny, and on any other day Dorian would concede the point and just walk away but unfortunately, this time he has to be stubborn.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer if I just went and shoved it up my-“

“Harritt. Dorian!” A rare sighting of the Herald up close, and in the daylight, even. And here was the idle thought that the man might reconsider the whole notion of crossing staves. By the bright smile on Thierry’s face, sooner-than-later may, in fact, be _now_. 

“I… ah…” It’s the shyness that’s almost unbearable to watch, the way the Herald drops his gaze and rubs the back of his neck and it’s really all Dorian can do not to kiss him breathless. “I… are you busy? I mean, I’m sure you’re busy, but…”

“Ever at your disposal, Herald.” Dorian says. “I required but a moment of the blacksmith’s time-“

Harritt isn’t looking at him anymore, too busy staring at Thierry, or more importantly what’s left of the tool in his hand, so melted and mangled Dorian can’t guess at its original use. The Herald looks appropriately sheepish.

“I don’t really know how it… I swear I didn’t - I can buy you a new one.”

The blacksmith doesn’t dignify that with a response, simply takes the wrecked piece of metal in one hand and Dorian’s staff in the other and walks away. The staff the Herald carries is bladeless as well, and though he certainly keeps his choice of spares, Dorian has a feeling this is an entirely new creation, the crystal from one and the haft of another and a _lot_ of work done - perhaps undone and redone - into the earliest hours of the morning and do not say it, Dorian, do not say-

“Spent all night polishing that, did you?“

“You know, you people might want to ease off on the intermarrying. Just a bit.”

Dorian could do this forever. He really could.

The last time he required the blacksmith’s services, it took the better part of the day just to be told he should come back tomorrow, but Dorian isn’t at all surprised when Harritt returns a few moments later, with his staff blunt-ended and a withering stare for the Herald, who quickly backs away, both hands raised in a mix of innocence and apology that makes him seem guilty of everything.

“The only way he’ll be pleased about the Breach is if I’m on the other side when it goes.” Thierry mutters, the moment they’re out of earshot. “So, you’re… not busy, then?”

He could tease this out a bit more, but why bother? Besides, if the Herald stays in suspense any longer he may run the risk of spraining something.

“I assume you have a venue in mind for _la petite guerre_?” Subtle, Dorian. Subtle man.

“Cassandra mentioned that she’d like some land cleared to the west. Rocks and mud and fallen trees, a little valley with nothing much to damage and plenty of space for… whatever. I told her I’d see if you might pitch in on the preliminary cleanup, and to not get worried if things got a bit… on fire.”

“Lead the way.”

Dorian’s always been proud of the time he’s put in, the training it took to become the mage he is. All that effort certainly allowed him to keep living and breathing and all those good things - but he may need to write a few more thank-you notes to his instructors for anything he does today that keeps the Inquisitor looking at him like that. Little glances from the corner of his eye when he doesn’t think Dorian will notice, as if he’s not quite sure this is real.

“I have to say, it’s difficult to imagine dueling as a popular pastime in the Circles outside Tevinter.”

“Oh, we weren’t supposed to. The Templars tended to discourage that sort of… but there was a group of us, we just - we liked to knock each other around, and pretend we were all going to be battlemages someday. As if anything ever happened in Ostwick. There was this this old, abandoned hall inside the Circle walls, a ruin - we used to sneak down there to practice. The bricks would get hot enough to sizzle, we threw so much magic - it was like fighting in an oven. It took us about… eight months to bring the whole place down on our heads? All that freezing and thawing, we didn’t even think about it. The First Enchanter was… less than impressed, and we startled a few Templars pretty bad, but enough of our instructors were on our side. We were being careful, we weren’t using any magic we shouldn’t have or trying to escape, just ‘mastering our powers’ and all that. So they finally let us make a new wreck out of the old one and we just… kept going. Our silly little club. Stupid, really.” 

Except he is proud, and trying not to show it. Afraid, perhaps, that the great Tevinter mage will find it all quite foolish.

“You had fun.” Dorian can remember what that was like, the joy of learning and doing before it all became weight, burden or obligation.

“We did. We really did.” Thierry sighs wistfully. “You know, I once set off a Wall of Fire it took _two_ Senior Enchanters to dispel?”

“I can’t imagine why they ever suspected you of blowing up the Conclave.”

“Morning, Herald.”

“Morning, Krem.”

The Chargers’ lieutenant leans against the wall near the front gate, cup in hand, and Dorian nearly trips over himself at the smell of freshly roasted coffee. It isn’t a popular drink here and what they do have to offer is a sad, pale imitation. No one else seems to notice the lack, but what Aclassi drinks now is rich and dark and perfect - and there’s an exceedingly smug smile, all in his eyes. Dorian hasn’t had a chance to get acquainted with his fellow expatriate yet, and now it seems he’ll be doing so via a good deal of shameless pleading.

“Going out?”

“Archery lesson.” Thierry says, that strange, inside joke that somehow explains it all. Krem only nods, his gaze shifting back to Dorian, an entirely unreadable expression, though it’s easy enough to guess. The quiet reminder that he’s still being watched, an entire mountain’s worth of consequences waiting to come down on his head should he prove false. It’s easy to like the Herald, even beyond the matter of the Breach in the sky. It’s even easier to distrust an Altus, and no doubt the lieutenant’s reasons are more informed than most.

A few moments later and they’re moving past the border of Haven and it’s just the silence of snow and stone, the sounds of camp fading as the hills rise up around them.

“Do mages duel often in Tevinter?”

“It depends on the mage, I suppose. For my part - not as often as I could have, and yet more than I preferred. As I’m sure you can guess, it’s mostly bloodsport. Official matches are supposed to be to first blood only, but there’s always plenty of room for ‘unfortunate accidents’. Unsanctioned matches are as popular as they are outlawed.”

He must want to know all the gory details, just how many bodies Dorian’s piled up in his wake, but the Herald doesn’t ask. For all the whispered horror stories of Tevinter depravity, it really isn’t all that impressive with the curtains drawn back. Beneath the self-satisfaction and grand gestures it’s surprisingly… pathetic. Brutal and cheap and sad, all the more so for how desperate they are to play-act at some greater purpose. There are those who do blood magic to augment their powers, and those who do so in order to have any power to speak of. 

Dorian didn’t have many reasons to go looking for a fight, and there’d been only a few times he’d been drawn into challenges he couldn’t talk his way out of or ignore. A mage with skill and style could do quite well for themselves in a dueling arena but he already had rank and nothing to prove and there was no real pleasure in drawing out a defeat. Only three times he’d been forced to push things to a permanent conclusion, and only the most recent that still carries any real sting.

It had been unforgivably stupid of him, by any measure. Only an imbecile would get involved with Domitius when they’d barely known each other and hadn’t even _liked_ what they did know and the sex had been perfunctory at best. A few brusque encounters to kill the time, and if they’d ever bothered with a conversation Dorian couldn’t for the life of him remember it and how had he not noticed it all going downhill that fast - ah, the clarity of retrospect.

So of course, there’d been the challenge at his door. All painstakingly official, the rune-and-wax formal summons from House Vatinius and Dorian dueling on behalf of an insult that wasn’t a relationship that had ended in mutual indifference three months prior.

He hadn’t had to kill Domitius, of course. Not when there was a younger son to be infuriated by the mark against his brother’s honor - slander, far more palatable an accusation and let’s not linger too long on the details - with the flames no doubt fanned by the thought of the glory of being the one to topple the sole heir of House Pavus. All of it lies, ugliness and spite and a vicious show of power- Magister Siculus underlining some point of control to his eldest son, quite happy to sacrifice the youngest to do so. The boy was an overconfident, cruel little shit, but he was also barely of legal dueling age and Dorian had been reduced to a cudgel, an executioner to keep Domitius in line.

For one brief moment, he’d honestly considered throwing the match, and a part of him still knows it would have been the noble move. Just drop his staff and refuse to play the role assigned to him. Except it seemed such a useless thing to die for and damned if he hadn’t wanted to live more than he’d wanted to be right.

A hideously short fight, for all that torturous preamble. With no chance of backing out, no way to fight to the draw, Dorian had at least made it quick and clean and over. Domitius hadn’t meant anything to him before or after and it hadn’t been his choice. He didn’t ask for the fight, but there was still something unforgivable in having to meet the eyes of even an apathetic lover with the body of his brother bleeding out at his feet. 

_“You bring all this on yourself.”_ His father’s first, last and only words on the subject, and yes, Dorian had, but it never should have come to that. It never should have been an _option_.

Whatever the expression on his face, it isn’t as neutral as he’d been hoping for. He’s been silent too long, the Herald not the sort to let these things go unnoticed.

“You know, if I shouldn’t have asked… we don’t need to do this.”

Dorian chuckles, this day as far from that as it is possible to get, the memory burned away the moment he holds it to the hard mountain light. “I’m rather certain disappointing the Herald of Andraste is more than a venial sin. Besides, you’ve already dragged us out this far. I don’t do nature walks if there isn’t _some_ violence waiting at the end of it.”

“All right, then. How do we begin?”

“Psychological warfare. Usually you try to unnerve your opponent, put them off balance. So I’d poison you at breakfast and you’d sleep with my sister.”

“I’ll look forward to it, for next time.”

It’s difficult to tell just when they’ve arrived, one patch of scrub and rock and snow looking much like any other. It certainly isn’t the lyrium-inlaid marble of Minrathous’ gilded dueling halls, but there’s something in the sun and the wind today that makes the whole world seem scrubbed and new, just waiting for them to come and play. A ram startles at their presence, darting out from behind a copse of half-broken, storm-damaged trees, the sound of its retreating hooves echoing long after it disappears.

“You do keep assuming you’re going to survive this one. I adore that sort of unfounded optimism.” Dorian rolls his shoulders, stretching. “ I suppose if we want to be civilized, there should be at least a few basic rules of engagement.”

“No aiming for the mustache. Got it.” Thierry’s surveying the plain in front of them. “Any idea what an official sparring circle ought to measure? We always just made a guess.”

“Allow me.”

It’s only a guideline, of course, no doubt they’re going to use the entire valley for this fight - and oh yes, Dorian is very much showing off now, listening to the snap and buckle of rock as he delicately manipulates the spell to cut a perfect circle into the stone. When Dorian is done, the Herald lifts his own staff and - crack! - one rather less elegant but quite powerful spell drops a dividing line right down the center and they’re _both_ showing off and if this isn’t foreplay, what is?

“So what happens, now?”

“Usually a reciting of dull titles and some attempt to pretend the fight has a reason.”

The Herald cocks his head. “Is this where I insult your hair?”

“We’re looking for a _believable_ reason. Which also rules out the question of who’s the better mage. Oh, and should you fumble your staff, I get to laugh about it. Endlessly.”

The crystal catches the light, as Thierry brings his weapon around and back again in a slow, loose swing. He has good form, nothing particularly refined but certainly serviceable. Dorian’s faster off the mark, he’s sure of it, but it likely won't be enough to ensure the win.

“I called you out because I’m petty and jealous?”

Dorian sighs. “Now it feels like home. Which reminds me - don’t forget to cheat.”

“Does the cheating have rules too, or do we make it up as we go along?”

“Let’s keep it informal. I don’t want to overwhelm your limited southern sensibilities.”

“I should be writing this down.”

Dorian swings his own staff in a few slow moves - the weight feels off without the blade, though it’s easy enough to adjust. He takes aim at a few small bits of scrub brush on a rock at the other side of the clearing, just far enough away to be impressive when each fireball lands dead on. The Herald is watching him - they’ve never been this close, not in full daylight with no one else around and Dorian ought to get a handicap if the man insists on being so damn easy to look at.

“You know, you really do have the bluest eyes.”

“Ah,” Thierry says, “and _this_ must be the part where you think insincere flattery will keep me from bouncing you off the mountain.”

Dorian snorts. “You have a very high opinion of yourself for someone snatched from certain death by Andraste’s own hand.”

“Baffling, isn’t it?”

Clearing the field of larger obstacles is a decent, lazy warm-up. Dorian uproots the closest stump in one smooth motion, freezing it with the next swing and shattering it with a third.

He’s seen the Herald cast, of course. The fact that they’d survived their little excursion into the future is proof enough of his skill. The south certainly doesn’t have the same expectations on its mages, and for all the restrictions they do have there are a few they lack. Dorian’s dipped his toe into every major school and most of the minors, but he’ll be the first to admit he can’t heal worth a damn - that’s not what an Altus is for, not a path to glory and acclaim. Of course he can defend himself properly - there’s a certain expectation for the classical combat skills, but at his level he spends as much time crafting new spells as actually casting them, the rarefied air of the more Fade-heavy disciplines. As far as he can tell, the boundaries are much less clear in the south, a surprising lack of stratification. Magic is magic here, a mage’s pursuits determined only by the limits of their power, which means Thierry is also familiar with a surprising number of schools, content to swap in and out as the situation demands.

As a rule, he seems to prefer the direct approach, a mix of mainly Primal and Elemental - Hit Stuff With Other Stuff. The kind of inelegant method that would impress no one back home but that doesn’t mean the Herald isn’t currently knocking boulders the size of nugs into the air - one, two, three - and pulverizing each before they can hit the ground, solid stone to clouds of dust in seconds. He takes out the last one with a behind-the-back shot that speaks to more than a little time spent getting it right.

 _“It’s not about who your parents are. I don’t give a damn who your parents are. Whoever’s trying to kill you won’t give a damn, either._ A good lesson, from a scarred vulture of an instructor who’d fought in Seheron, and cast faster than anyone Dorian had ever seen, with a nasty habit of swinging his staff as a distraction while throwing lightning with his off hand. _It’s not about what Circle you trained at or the best teachers or how much you spend on your staff. You don’t believe it, I know you don’t, but there’s some nameless nobody out there waiting to take you apart because they want it more. I can teach you magic, I can show you how to win - but the wanting I can’t give you. Now, Pavus, if you’re quite finished showing off, please put Arvina down. Gently._

“How many of those can you manage at once?”

Thierry looks thoughtful. “I’m not sure? I guess I’ve never really had the chance to go all out.”

Dorian has to keep reminding himself that a few months ago, even this would have been well beyond a southern Circle mage. An unsupervised walk in the middle of nowhere, with no Templars in sight? Horror of horrors, how are they not swimming in abominations at this very moment? Harrowings and Tranquility and Apostates, it’s all a rather grim vocabulary these mages treat as their due - but it doesn’t stop them, does it? It certainly hasn’t stopped the Herald.

“Suddenly, my participation feels alarmingly optional.”

Thierry scoffs. “If you weren’t here, what would I aim at?”

It doesn’t take long to melt off the slush and clear away the last of the debris, and what’s left outside the circle they’ll do just as well throwing at each other.

“I assume we’re fighting until one of us can no longer cast?”

“Last man standing? Works for me.”

“Well, then.” Dorian takes a few steps toward the circle. “I suppose all that’s left are the stakes.”

“Stakes?”

“A wager between gentlemen, if we’re going to do this properly.”

“What do you want?” Dorian’s brain hurts itself, going in that many inappropriate directions at once. Fortunately, Thierry doesn’t seem to notice. “I could always let you have one of those bottles you’ve been eyeing that I dug out from Maker knows where. You know, the rotting, abandoned shack wine? It might not even kill you.”

“When I win, Herald I want… a conversation. Five minutes. Topic of my choosing. In Tevene.”

Thierry lets out a pained sigh that Dorian has absolutely no intention of caring about.

“You know, just because I can do something doesn’t mean that I should.”

“… and _that’s_ how I know you’re not from the North.” 

He takes his place, the Herald standing at the opposite edge of the circle, the air between them charged and ready.

“So, other than the crippling humiliation I’d suffer from losing to a southern mage, what prize might tempt the victorious Herald?”

“I hate to disappoint,” Thierry smiles, and brings his staff around, ready to strike, “but this already feels like winning.”

————————————————

“You’re just wasting power, Herald! A fireball doesn’t need to make my teeth rattle!”

“Did he say he wants one more? I think he wants one more!”

Dorian dodges the first two fireballs, and parries the third which gives him time to launch a bit of ice to catch the fourth in midair, and then it’s his turn to attack, a barrage of lightning that blasts through the copse of trees that were already ablaze from the last round, blazing shrapnel scattering everywhere and neither of them wasting energy on a barrier yet. He sees the splash of water freeze against Thierry’s boot as he slides to a halt, the only warning but enough to keep moving as the wave of cold skirts past him, a rime of frost climbing up from where the edge of his cloak has frozen.

Next time they’re doing this with lyrium potions, cost be damned. It’ll let them invest in the shields and have even more fun, though this sort of careful measuring out of power is a challenge all its own. The both of them are countering with opposite elements in place of steady defenses, no reason to squander too much power on any one attack - enough to sting, not to do real damage, though the Herald has this way of throwing his weight behind his moves, an effort that ought to be brutish and excessive but leaves surprisingly few openings for a counterattack. It doesn’t stop Dorian from taking a few careful shots, looking for weaknesses as he listens to bits of tree and mountain patter down around them.

He’d have already won, had his life depended on it, Dorian’s fairly sure of that. If this were a real duel, it would be long over but this is _so much_ better than that and he is so terribly distracted. The part of him that isn’t noticing everything the Herald does well-enough that Dorian can show him how to improve upon is the part that’s imagining some other world, one where Thierry had lived in Tevinter all along. If he were still the first mage of his family it wouldn’t have been the best place to start, but perhaps a chance encounter? Surely, even as a Laetan he could have managed better than the Hundred Pillars. Let him duel, put him in an arena, and Dorian could have seen him there. Noticed his skill, offered the man a position as his bodyguard, and then, well -

Then a Stonefist damn near goes through his shields, and Dorian stumbles, regains his footing a spare inch away from one of Thierry’s wards - the ground is an increasingly problematic minefield, an unspoken but mutual agreement that neither of them is going to waste any energy on dispelling. Which has turned this all into an elaborate game of chicken, with glyphs and wards threatening to overlap and that plus the ambient magic means the increasing likelihood of a chain reaction for whomever is unfortunate enough to make that final misstep. 

_Which means stop jerking off or stop getting hit, Pavus - pick one!_

It’s not a real duel, but that doesn’t keep him from ducking behind a bit of cover to catch his breath, and the Herald’s doing much the same, keeping well out of his range. Steam rises off the both of them in the frigid air, patches of the ground hissing and sizzling or frozen or the momentary muck of in between.

“I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, Herald, but there _are_ things magic is good for besides different flavors of _punching_.”

“… keeps drinks cold. Or hot!”

“Idiot barbarians.” Dorian mutters, happier than he’s been in longer than he can remember. He glances up past the Herald, to the ridge, even more spectators there than before. At first it had been Krem, and then a few of the other Chargers. Unsurprisingly, the long-horned silhouette of their leader appeared shortly after - and now Dorian can see new arrivals, mages in the colors of several different circles, quite a few of them young and no doubt enjoying the show. A few soldiers with them too, obviously thinking they ought to do something but not about to interfere in the Herald’s business, even if they can’t tell what it’s supposed to be.

“Barriers up and keep them there!” Thierry warns, green flickers cascading across the ridge at his command. 

A little disappointing that they’ve been discovered - but now they have the opportunity for an audience and Dorian is nothing if not made for a stage. He moves back into view, and there’s the Herald ready to start again, a dozen little tricks to consider for putting the man off his stride. Altering the rhythm of a cast - without losing the spell - or casting off-hand and Dorian can do all of that and more but the most fun is to shift into a left-handed grip, enough of a change in where and how he hits to often ensure the win.

Except that the Herald mirrors him - move for move, and twice as pleased with himself.

“A ‘silly little club,’ was it? ‘Nothing much happens in the Ostwick Circle’?”

Thierry shrugs, that so-dumb-it’s-cute expression that no longer seems much of either. “You end up with a lot of time to kill when you’re inconsequential. It’s great for practice.”

Dorian could dignify that with a response, but a fireball works just as well.

He speeds up his assault, pushing the advantage and when the Herald responds with lightning Dorian take the chance to throw it back at him, a risky move that occasionally blows up in his face but it works a treat here. A technique Thierry doesn’t know and there’s surprise as he scrambles to block and dodge but excitement too and Dorian knows he’s insured his place here. He’ll be welcome for however long it takes the Herald to learn everything he’s willing to teach and just leave it there, Dorian, leave it - but that’s not going to happen now, is it? Practice improves everything, except for this, his heart forever offered with all the caution of a bird full-speed into a window pane. A good thing he’s more durable than he looks. 

The Herald’s countering every glyph he can’t help but move across, and blocking Dorian’s attacks at the same time - fire with the staff to catch one attack, ice with his off hand to take care of the blazing seal on the ground. Clever boots, isn’t he, but it’s not going to do much against that glyph of repulsion Dorian disguised as an ice ward that he’s just about to - yes, there it is. 

He lunges forward as the Herald is thrown back, off-balance, but the spell that ought to freeze him in place and end this plishes uselessly off the stone because Thierry has Fade-stepped, glyphs snapping in his wake and Dorian moves too and this must look at least a little bit impressive now, watching from the ridge. Two blurs amidst the rising crackle of tripped magics and someone really ought to dispel that ambient energy but Dorian has more pressing concerns like slowing Thierry down when he reaches the end of his little Fade-fueled traverse and -

It’s a beautiful move, Dorian can admire it even as he sees how badly it’s going to work against him, Thierry freezing the ground at the end of the step so that he doesn’t lose any momentum, a speed that carries him well beyond Dorian’s last spell and, yes, then he’s flanked and Dorian brings his staff up just in time to connect with the blow that comes down, the Herald closing the distance between them to nothing and of course he of the ridiculous, unnecessary shoulders will have no problem in a physical fight, although if he thinks this is going to win him the day, Dorian is happy to prove him wrong. 

_If getting hit so is troublesome, Pavus, you might consider avoiding it?_

He dodges. He deflects, never taking the full force of a strike, always one step past where the Herald expects him to be, although none of the spells he’s firing find a target either - and then the Herald’s staff hits his, just below the focus crystal and when he draws back for his next move he nearly takes Dorian with him. 

Large amounts of steady electrical magic. 

Metal staves. 

Which leaves them effectively holding two staff-shaped magnets, and it ought to be easy enough to just stop casting and fix that problem but they do, they _both_ do and nothing changes. Dorian can practically hear the crystal in his staff singing as the power continues to build entirely without their help. 

An amateur mistake, really, compounded by who knows how many half-cast glyphs slowly crumbling and the remnants of spells any sane mage would have dealt with twenty moves ago.

“Oh, shit.” Thierry mutters in that last half-second of silence - long enough to see what’s coming, too late to stop it - but it sounds a lot more like glee than concern in his voice. 

Dorian draws his shields up tight, with everything he’s got to spare, but the very last thing he feels startles him far worse than the shockwave that knocks him off his feet. All that training, all that study and all those teachers and he's never been in the habit of casting for anyone but himself. A dangerous show of trust to do otherwise - but there it is, the Herald’s barrier strengthening his own, just the way he had in Redcliffe, without a moment’s hesitation.

The explosion is one of his better ones, Dorian ponders in midair, even if he can only take half the credit. 

It’s mostly force, no real fire, and his shields are fit for the impact, though he’ll certainly be carrying some bruises away as souvenirs. Still, it’s a surprise when the world finally rights itself and Dorian realizes he’s sitting a bit more than midway up the hill to where the spectators are still staring. It seems like most everyone’s here now, Solas and Blackwall and even Sera, that blonde elf from the bar who may or may not still be a roving lunatic - and oh dear, that’s the Seeker pushing her way to the front, followed closely by the Commander and a few of his sterner looking men.

Hardly the first time he’s made enough of a spectacle of himself to draw a crowd, and Dorian casually dusts himself off as he gets to his feet.

“Beg pardon, but you wouldn’t happen to have seen-“ 

A yelp, and a few of the mages jump backward as his stave slams end-first into the ground at the top of the hill.

“Excellent. Nevermind.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Seeker Pentaghast says because somebody has to, obviously trying to decide if she’d rather kick him in the face or wait until he gets to the summit to hit him with her shield first.

“It rather explains itself, don’t you think?” Dorian says blithely, and turns to look at the shattered, steaming wreckage stretching out behind him - all right, so maybe they’d overdone it, just slightly. A shape coalesces from the lingering smoke, the Herald of Andraste swaggering out of the aftermath, arms draped over the staff across his shoulders and laughing like a madman. He’s filthy and flushed and glorious, effectively ripping up the rest of Dorian’s thoughts and scattering them to the winds. 

“So, was it good for you!?”

“I believe that was a _clear_ violation of the ‘no mustache’ policy.” Dorian says, lifting a hand to make sure it’s still attached and pointed in vaguely the right direction.

“What part of that do you call _aiming_? It’s a draw. We’re still both standing, that’s definitely a draw.”

Which of course suggests a rematch, if not in the words then certainly in the way those blue eyes sparkle. Dorian can see why they’re worried in the Chantry and they have every right to be, they don’t realize how badly this is going to go for them. He will be as big as the legends require, as the mages need him to be. He will carry that burden with a smile, for as long as it takes - and just look at it, the way the apprentices watch him now with open awe, this mage who wields his power with such clear and fearless delight. 

“Herald.” The Seeker says, with the tone of a nursemaid watching jam drip from the ceiling. “When you offered your assistance I had not expected you to be so… thorough.”

Thierry couldn’t look more innocent if he actually was. “Well, it put up quite a fight, but I think that’s the last trouble you’ll have from that field. Thankfully, I had some help with the vanquishing.”

Dorian sighs, rubbing his nails against the one clean patch of shirt he still has, and wonders just how close the Seeker is to piking him. “One does what one can.” 

“Lieutenant Aclassi, Commander, Grand Enchanter.” The Herald swings his staff off his shoulders, at once all business despite the muddy water still dripping from his hair. “Since I’ve got you here, there’s some advice the Lieutenant’s offered that I’d like to bring you both in on. Do you have a moment?”

Cullen looks bemused, waving his guard away, and Fiona is as graciously attentive as she has been ever since the Herald pulled her out of the fire, Krem needing no more introduction to start his pitch for incorporating the mages more thoroughly into Haven’s primary defenses, and the four of them move slowly back toward town.

The rest of the mages are conferring in low voices, a few of the younger ones staring with avid curiosity down into what remains of the ‘arena’ - though they quickly shuffle off when they notice the Seeker glaring. Dorian waits, vaguely wondering if he has the mana left to block whatever it is she wants to do, but Cassandra only stares at him, blinks, stares a moment more and finally trudges off to continue putting the fear of the Maker into row after row of unfortunate training dummies.

“Mages.” Iron Bull’s voice rumbles from somewhere behind him, carrying as far as he wants it to. “Never changes. It’s like watching a pair of-“ He switches to his own tongue for the final word, though it doesn’t sound quite like an insult.

“What’s that, then?” Sera says. “Nugs? Is it like nugs?”

“Cranes. Big birds with painted wings.” Dorian doesn’t have to look, to know the mercenary’s expression. “Flashy for no good reason. Elaborate mating dance.”

“Oooh, _crush you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thank you very, very much for all of the comments and kudos. 
> 
> 2\. I’m a little annoyed by the way they nerfed magic this time around, so I’m using a melange of whatever’s most fun from Origins and II along with Inquisition.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I said 'mostly just introspection' obviously I meant enormous fight scene. Tried to keep the game dialogue to a minimum.

It goes well. 

Until it stops going well.

The Herald seals the Breach. Dorian invites himself along and no one stops him, though there isn’t much for him to do but linger in the background of Solas’ careful planning, quietly stunned by the amount of power at play and the blackened outlines of catastrophe still burned in the stone at his feet. He has the distinct realization that if it should go wrong again there’s not a barrier in this world strong enough to save him from the same fate. Yet when Thierry stands before the Breach, arm outstretched, the conduit for so much energy it hurts to look at him, Dorian isn’t worried about himself at all.

The Herald is up and moving under his own power at the end of it, though Solas stays close by and the Seeker hovers at his elbow, ready to step in. He looks dazed, exhausted and not-quite present and though he stays on his horse all the way back to Haven he manages little more than a wave and a steady smile to the adoring throngs before disappearing for what certainly must be one of history’s most well-deserved naps. 

The mood is a strange one, giddy relief with a distinct undercurrent of unease. The hole in the sky left the whole world suspended in mid-step, and it’s quite clear no one knows what’s supposed to happen next. Unsurprisingly, it seems most of the village decides the best place to search for advice is in the bottom of a tankard. Standing outside his door, Dorian can survey most of the scene - dancers whirling to music outside that clashes with whatever’s being played from within the bar, the doors propped open - all of Haven is the tavern tonight. In the distance, he sees a few colorful bits of magic firing off high into the sky above the mages’ camp, and thankfully for now it only brings cheers and applause.

“I am surprised, Dorian. I had rather expected to find you on the other side of the table. If not already under it.”

He appreciates a good deal about Solas - his brisk, cheerful disapproval, his swift dismissal of unquestioned rhetoric and an appreciation of knowledge as a goal unto itself. Which hasn’t made their conversations any more pleasant, on the whole - the elven mage is steeped in ancient history and less than none of that tilts in the favor of the Imperium. Dorian assumes the only thing that’s kept Solas from setting him alight is that it would imply he’s worth the effort.

“Rather ill-mannered for a professional to mingle with the amateurs. I wouldn’t want to make them feel as if they weren’t trying.” Dorian says. “What about you? I’d imagine that vest would feel right at home in some cozy, pastoral revelry.”

“I considered checking in on the Herald.”

It’s difficult to know what the elven mage thinks about anything - Solas is quite plainspoken, if taciturn, but there’s something that nudges at the edges of Dorian’s suspicions, a lifetime spent in a land full of intricate puzzle boxes pretending to be human that says he is not entirely honest, even when he’s telling the truth. It could just be the manners of a typical apostate - whatever ‘typical’ might mean there - but as long as Solas keeps his consequences to himself, Dorian can’t say he has an excuse to pry.

“Is he going to be all right?”

“I believe he will be fine. It seemed this attempt did not affect him nearly as badly as the last.” A slight bit of warmth enters his voice. “As you can see for yourself.”

Thierry stands near the center of town, as yet unnoticed by the celebrating throngs. Seeker Pentaghast is with him - they share an odd and cautious respect, given how little the Herald’s choices match what she must have wished for. Still, though they come at it from different directions they are in pursuit of similar goals - peace, stability, understanding - and it is fortunate the Seeker seems to recognize that. 

“It’s already far different from when I arrived.” Solas says. “He wishes to build far more than the solution to a single problem here. I wonder what this Inquisition might yet become.”

“You’ll have a hand in that, I’m sure.” Dorian says. “The Herald thinks highly of you, even if he's sure you find him terribly dull.”

Solas’ smile tends to be more implied than actual. “Terribly uninformed, perhaps, but that is hardly new. He takes no pride in his ignorance, at least.” 

Dorian smirks. “His endless curiosity and your benevolent superiority. The perfect sort of patronage.”

“I might say as much about you… although benevolent may not be the right word.”

So, Solas _definitely_ knows, just in case Dorian thought he was being too subtle. 

“I’ll just go ahead and assume that you don’t approve.”

The elf does not look at him, gazing out over Haven instead. “You may assume anything you like.” 

“ _Excellent_ deflection. Crisp yet tart, with a piquant finish.”

“Dorian.”

“Does the Fade give lessons on being coy? I must not go to the right places.”

“Is there anything I can say that you haven’t already thought of?” Solas says. “It’s hardly an uncommon dilemma. Follow an unanticipated desire, or set out to achieve your original goal. Decide what you can live without, if you can’t have both.” 

How exactly has he stumbled into this hideous conversation, and what does he have to gnaw off to escape? Much as he’d like to, Dorian can’t deny the truth in the words. Unlike Tevinter, rushing after every foolish inclination here could do lasting damage to something other than himself. A bit difficult to claim an honest affection for the Herald if that alone is enough to cripple Thierry’s ambitions. Which leaves Dorian in the unusual position of wishing he were giving himself too much credit. He wants to laugh off the idea that his actions could be any sort of tipping point, but nothing here is so secure. His presence among the Herald’s associates might be excusable, one fox in the henhouse, but anything more…

“Do you see that?”

“ _Yes_ , I get your point.” Dorian says, more testily than he intends to. “I have no intention-“

“No.” Solas says, staring out far beyond Haven’s walls. “That.”

Dorian watches the lights appear from the darkness, like stars trickling down, one or two and then a half-dozen to a steady stream. Torchlights. Soldiers.

The Chantry bell begins to ring.

——————————————————

It’s chaos. 

The Commander’s done the very best he can, but he’s had little time and fewer resources and a patchwork group of soldiers and guards to train up all at once, everything from former Templars to eager recruits with next to no experience. 

As he reaches the gate, Dorian doesn’t see the Herald, or the Seeker either, and Ambassador Montilyet passes him in a dead run in the opposite direction, toward the Chantry hall. He weaves and pushes his way through the crowd - workers rushing in, soldiers and mages rushing out - and finally reaches the edge of the wide semi-circle around the first bodies, what must have been the enemy’s forward scouts, perhaps sneaking up in the hopes of taking them entirely by surprise. 

No mistaking that uniform. The Templars make an effort to be known.

Dorian hears it before he sees it, like music except that’s not exactly right and like magic but _more_ and he’s not going to waste another minute trying to pin it down - just call it awful, echoes from the future singing back to the now, because the body at his feet stares up to the sky, and the Templar’s dead, empty gaze glitters red. 

The approaching army is close enough to hear now, the echo of their footsteps on the mountain like the sea crashing back in on itself. A murmur of fear sweeps across the whole of Haven, and Dorian looks up for his first glimpse of their true enemy at the crest of the hill, this Elder One - and that’s not a Magister, not a mage, not even _human_. Arcane Horror? No. Towering well past that, and more solid and with _more_ red Lyrium sticking out of him and this does just keep getting better, doesn't it?

A mage lets out a sound like nothing Dorian’s ever heard, a low, terrified moan in the sudden, awful silence. It’s in all their eyes - shock for some, but for others the grim death of hope, an utter lack of surprise - this is what Templars do, sooner or later. Step out of line, question the way things are and face nothing less than annihilation. A Right of Annulment without limit or end.

The look on Cullen’s face is even worse than that. One instant where Dorian sees all his plans and calculations fade, all that determination halted in one swift stroke - he may have left the Order, but before that they’d had the bulk of his life. He’d served them loyally, upheld those vows - believed it, that he was protecting the mages, that even if they faltered or stumbled, he was part of something bright and honorable and virtuous. It must be bitter beyond measure to see what the Templars have rushed to embrace, to stand for the first time on the other side, surrounded by the fear and resignation of those who’d never expected any better. 

“Mages, you-” the slightest hesitation, as if he can’t quite believe this is real, “you have sanction to engage them!”

“Right, then! You heard the man!” Out of the crowd, a mage steps forward, raising an already-glowing staff. No Circle robes on him, and a deep scar that nearly bisects a well-worn face, speaking to a hard life outside the Chantry’s laws. “If you ever wanted to kill Templars, now’s the fucking time!”

Not quite the sentiment the Commander had been reaching for, to be sure, but at the moment they’ll have to take what they can get. It still isn’t enough to get them moving - the mages are terrified, and any soldier that isn’t so inexperienced as to be frozen in place is no doubt counting the odds, the slight numbers of Haven’s forces against well-trained, well-supplied Templar veterans and that’s before _it_ lumbers into view.

The vanguard of this assault - a jagged, enormous pillar of red lyrium in the rough-cut shape of a man, a lumbering nightmare golem that screams as it charges the gates.

Dorian’s moving before he can think the better of it, all his focus on where to put the only strike he’s likely to get - take out a leg if he can, slow it down, just _slow it down_ \- but he barely gets two steps in before a figure rushes past him - Thierry sprinting forward, planting the staff in his left hand in the ground, but he’s still got one in his right and it’s already glowing - too bright, not just the crystal but a wide corona of light all the way down the steel. 

The Mark, that’s what’s _really_ glowing and Dorian remembers the wealth of broken staves in the Herald’s quarters, all that ‘practice’ and he can feel the Veil twist and pull, a violent surge that makes Dorian’s ears pop and shakes him to his back teeth. The staff shatters to less than dust in the Herald’s hand and the monster shrieks and crumbles, a short, violent series of concussive bursts reducing it to a tumbling pile of dull stone.

He’s teased Thierry more than once for not living up to his legend - too quiet, too unimpressive. Without that Mark he could be any second-rate diplomat or minor enchanter - but this is not that man. The Herald turns back, reaching for the staff he’d left, staring out over Haven, looking to all of them. The little show of power must have cost him plenty, he hasn’t had _that_ long to recover from the Breach, but it does what it needs to do. Dorian can already feel the crowd around him begin to rally, mages and soldiers alike, the Herald tall and proud and full of righteous fury, exactly what people pray for in moments like this - _I am here and we will fight and I will not abandon you._

And where he goes, so go the blessings of Andraste and the Maker. Hopefully. And anyone else who might want to pitch in. Dorian’s certainly not going to be picky.

“Inquisition, with the Herald! For your lives! For all of us!”

The Commander’s good with a rallying cry. It makes it sound as if they almost have a chance.

—————————

Seheron was always fashionable for ambitious and ruthless men of every social standing, though his father had absolutely forbidden him to go anywhere near it, and Dorian had never felt much desire to defy that particular order. He’s rebellious and impetuous, not actively suicidal. 

So while he’s familiar enough with defending himself, the front line of an actual all-out war is a bit… beyond him, frankly, and Dorian has the terrible suspicion he’s not the only one scrambling for strategy while hoping to avoid friendly fire among an increasingly large number of ways to die. 

Dorian quickly loses sight of the Herald, Thierry with the Seeker at one side and Warden Blackwall at the other, a cordon of steel and fire that cuts straight through everything in a path towards the nearest trebuchet. He barely has time to spare hoping they will get there before the first of the Red Templars come into view and he has problems all his own. 

Maker, but they’re frighteningly resilient toward magic. Lightning and fire wash right over them, not that it doesn’t damage but that they don’t seem to _care_. Dorian switches to ice, anything to hold them up, keep them back long enough for the arrows coming in from behind him to find their targets - thankfully Varric’s crossbow is worth at least half the praise he constantly showers on it.

_‘Passion is fuel, not focus. You fight angry, you die angry - and if you die after I trained you how not to, I’ll find you in the Fade and I’ll kill you again! Now, first position! Casca, eyes up! Pavus, elbows in!”_

A skittering figure darts here and there through the trees and shadows in front of him, young and lanky in what Dorian can only call a hat because he’s wearing it as such, but when he slides into place behind a Templar they go down hard, and even as Dorian shields from the arrows he swears the boy is finding their source in the dark, cutting them down - that’s no ordinary soldier, not even one of Leliana’s better scouts but there’s nothing to do except hope whatever he is stays on their side.

“Barriers on the front lines! Mages, keep your distance!”

If only they’d had more time. Dorian’s seen them training together, the mages and the soldiers and it had seemed a solid plan but they’ve had a handful of days at best. Not enough time to handle even the basics and this is no normal enemy, the Red Templars strong enough to toss men into the air with the force of their advance and the only thing that truly works in Haven’s favor is that there’s nowhere they can fall back to, nothing to do but fight.

Off to his left, the trebuchet finally fires, a cheer rising up when it hits the target and a mass of lights wink out of existence - but there are only more cries of pain to follow, archers cutting down Haven’s soldiers, Templars on fire crashing down on mages as they turn to flee and this is not a line they can hold for long, with more of them coming by the moment. Dorian catches sight of a hazy, wavering light, just a little past where he’s standing - the reflection of torches off the ice, the Templars moving across the lake - and well now, why let the trebuchets have all the fun?

Spend the magic where it counts, the most damage for the least effort. The best way to win any sort of fight, even more so with the odds so far against them. Dorian is going to be more than a bit screwed in the event of an ambush, but if they don’t cut off this avenue of attack it will be much worse and… he shouldn’t care so much about these people. He hasn’t been here long enough to care, except that it has all felt so _real_ , in a way many things never have. Dorian’s seen parts of this town built and raised into place, has been here long enough that he can even give directions to the arrivals too new to realize they shouldn’t be talking to him.

It’s not home. Haven is an icy, barely hospitable cairn several nowheres removed from anywhere worth spending time - and yet here he is, ready to defend it with all he has.

If they are annihilated, at least he won’t have to live that down. Win-win.

In a way, the bigger spells are easier, especially when he doesn’t have to aim them particularly well. A Primal variation, with ice in place of stone, and there’s little more art to it than bracing himself and pulling, hearing the jagged, explosive snap as the ice begins to give way, watching geysers of water punch between and around and occasionally just below the Templars, launching them into the air. 

Just as Dorian starts to flag he feels the energy pull and push again - other mages, further down the shore, picking up where he left off, forcing power back into the spell and with one tremendous roar the whole lake collapses in on itself, and that’s enough to make even these Red Templars howl, shrieking as they disappear beneath the dark waters.

He doesn’t stagger, or sway, which is good because it seems he’s gained an audience. The lean, tall figure still watching from the distant rise - the Elder One, looking straight at him, and it’s difficult to tell if he’s any angrier or if his face only ever bothers with the one expression. 

It’s only good manners to acknowledge one’s opponent. Dorian smiles, his eyes fixed and steady on that dark nightmare, his stave tucked into the curl of his arm like a proper gentleman when he bows.

—————————————

A bit anticlimactic to retreat to the tree line, but he needs the moment to let his magic catch its breath and the damned Red Templars are strong enough that Dorian can easily exhaust himself taking down even a single one. He tries to move quietly, staff extinguished, wishing he had any ability to tell which way the battle was going or where he ought to go next - the sky is a wash of color as spell upon spell rains down, the torches eclipsed here and there by rows of burning trees and Dorian can see across the shattered lake to a pitched and furious battle on the Penitents’ Crossing, struggling for control of the choke point - and then a brilliant flash blinds him, Dorian blinking away the afterimage even as the crack of thunder roars over him - not thunder, but the bridge itself coming down. Maker only knows how many of theirs went with it.

“Not bad, not bad. Give those bastards something to think about.”

Dorian is still half-blind, but he has his staff lit and ready to cast, even though the voice sounds thin and tired at best.

“Oi, ‘vint. Lend us a hand?”

It’s the apostate from the gates, the scarred one who’d been the first to rally, except now he’s leaning heavily against a tree, a wide trail of blood marking his last few steps and more of it seeping out between his fingers. Dorian steps forward, but even if he were a healer a gut wound like that would be no easy fix and he wouldn’t even know where to start.

“I don’t - I can’t…”

“Oh, I’m proper fucked.” The man grins, blood in his smile. “No helping it now.” A few shouts, distant but closing, the edge of battle moving in their direction. “Come on, then. Let’s give them a surprise. You’ve got to have something.”

Yes, of course he does. Dorian has several spiteful, nasty little tricks that they probably wouldn’t approve of down here, as painful as they are lethal. The sort of thing he’d hesitate to inflict on a good number of his enemies, let alone an ally - but the apostate mage holds his gaze steady.

“It’s all right. I had a whole life, all my own. I fought for it, and it was mine. What else is there?” He holds out a hand. “Do it. It’s all right.”

Virulent Walking Bomb. As pleasant as it sounds, and the apostate chokes back a cry, strained and pale as Dorian takes his hand and the curse takes hold.

“… but my faith sustains me, I shall not fear the legion, should they set themselves against me,” he murmurs, as Dorian swiftly stitches in a few supplemental castings - a barrier, extra strength, with a bit of blood magic to tie it all up in a bow, because he’s certainly spilling enough of that across the snow, and it will keep him moving and dull the pain for the last two minutes he’s going to be alive.

“You’re a good one, ‘vint.” The man says, his voice steadier, a false recovery. “Don’t let them tell you different. I take back all that shit I ever said about your mustache.”

Dorian doesn’t even know his name. He’d like to. He’d like to buy him a drink and hear those insults firsthand and learn all about the life of a southern apostate. Instead, there’s nothing more than this, a quick clap on his shoulder and then the man rushing off into the night, directly into the Red Templar lines.

The screaming starts a few moments later. From the sound of it, the apostate managed to ambush at least one squad, maybe even two, and they scream for a long time.

The forest is eerily silent behind him. Only the Maker knows how he managed to put himself so far ahead of the main force, but the battle’s shifted and Dorian needs to backtrack, rejoin the army closer to Haven’s walls. He’s just asking to get picked off out here. 

Which is exactly what happens just a few minutes later - a flare of light on his right, from what he’d sworn was only more rocks and trees. Only a pair of Templars, but one of them’s casting some sort of spell into the one in front of him and _vishante kaffas_ , how is that even - 

Dorian can hear bones breaking, daggers of lyrium punching through skin and Templar armor and he only realizes he’s dropped to his knees when he feels the soak of the snow, a raw, ugly lyrium burn behind his eyes, piercing pain like the worst hangover he’s ever had and the wrongness of it thick enough to leave him gagging - _get up or you’re a dead man get up get up_ get up -

“Vint! Stay down!”

Dorian freezes, feeling the rush of wind above him as the axe flies over his head, burying itself in the chest of… whatever it is that used to be a Templar. He swallows against another roil of nausea, fumbles the next spell - catches it with the very edge of his will and doesn’t even aim, just pushes the barrier up around him, bringing the Iron Bull and his lieutenant and a few more of the Chargers under its protection. 

True to the name, they don’t stop moving, Iron Bull yanking his axe out of the Templar’s chest even as he falls, going after the bigger brute behind him while Aclassi flanks from the right and it takes longer than it should even though it isn’t that long, the lieutenant with a blow that finally brings the creature to its knees, just long enough for Bull to take its head off.

Whatever _it_ is, whatever they’ve done to themselves. These aren’t people anymore.

A hand under his arm, and he’s swiftly pulled back to his his feet. Dorian tries to shake off the worst of it, aware of more Templars closing in, but also aware the that Chargers are pleased to make their acquaintance. He’s listened to quite a few Magisters talk a great deal of shit about the ineffectiveness of the Qunari war machine. The situation in Seheron alone said they had to be liars, but it’s nice to have a visual confirmation. The Iron Bull cleaves through weapons and armor and bone with the same easy swing, his expression alarmingly close to placid, satisfied - a farmer at his plow, a smith at the furnace - this is what he is for.

A really, terribly good thing Dorian never considered going to Seheron.

The second trebuchet must fire true, there’s a louder cheer in the distance drowned out by a huge roar from the mountain, and Dorian has just enough time to think that maybe the Commander’s rallying cry could pay off when the dragon shows up.

Yes of course, let’s do that! Hardly a proper cataclysm without one!

He’ll know it, if the Herald should fall. Dorian’s sure he’ll hear that even from here, but that was no small blast to take down a trebuchet - and the Templars are still coming, as if they haven’t noticed any losses, as if it doesn’t matter. So he fights, and the Chargers fight, Dorian tossing out ice and lighting and anything else he can think of, until somehow he’s standing back-to-back with the Iron Bull, trading off attacks, Dorian stunning or startling them long enough for the Qunari to bring them down for good.

The dragon screams above them, as if it could split the sky all on its own.

“I don’t suppose you have any of that super fucked-up Magister shit on hand?” Bull says.

“No room in the pack.” Dorian says. “It was either bring the pure evil or my spare boot polish and, well, needs must.”

“Fuck.”

The call for retreat carries across the battlefield, and as they move away from the trees he gets his first clear view of their newest, largest problem as it soars overhead - dragon, he’d commit to dragon but there’s something to the skin, to the tattered holes in its wings and even in the dim moonlight it doesn’t quite look-

“That’s… not just a dragon, is it?” 

“ _Fuck_.”

A few Red Templars have nearly made it to the gates, and Dorian raises his staff as one of them turns to face him - only to let it fall as the Herald charges in, caving the Templar’s head in with a fierce blow from a borrowed maul, two more dull crunches enough to keep even one of these monsters down for good.

Thierry’s breathing hard, battered and scraped though little of the substantial blood across his armored robes appears to be his own. He’s likely been trading off between spells and a more… hands-on approach, in an attempt to keep any kind of mana in reserve.

“I think that might be cheating.” Dorian says, and even in the midst of this nightmare the Herald grins back.

“Hey, Boss.”

“Hey, Bull.”

They all duck, as the can’t-really-be-an-Archdemon-can-it makes another low pass - another ball of fire, another dozen or more dead past the far end of Haven.

“ _That’s_ definitely cheating,” Thierry says, tossing over a lyrium potion that Dorian downs in one swallow as they run toward the gates.

As bad as it is to see the damage, bodies strewn across the battlefield that used to be a camp, the moans of the dying they can’t help and the injured they can’t save, it’s even worse to watch the Herald take it all in, all these people who followed him here and believed. Dorian remembers that half-step forward Thierry took in Redcliffe, in the future, knowing there was no way to save his comrades, that their only chance for survival was to die and he’d still barely been able to stand there and let it happen.

The Inquisition has control of the gate, but that hasn’t stopped Templars from scaling the walls, or the dragon from setting half the buildings alight from above and the Chargers go left, Bull in the lead and already splitting his first opponent in two and as Thierry turns right the Seeker’s suddenly with them, helping even out the numbers as the Templars rush in. 

A flash of light off a blade, cutting the string of a Red Templar’s bow even as he pulls back the arrow, the second strike high, finding easy purchase in his throat. The quicksilver boy in his impossible hat, pale eyes locking on Thierry, his voice low and urgent.

“Can’t breathe, spilled ale sticky on the skin, groan of burning wood above, the Herald will save me, _the Herald will save me_ -“

Flissa. 

A dash toward the blazing wreck of the tavern, with more Templars in the way and Thierry doesn’t even slow down, fade-steps right through their advance and disappears around the corner. Dorian finds it works just as well to support the Seeker, a barrier on top of her already significant defenses and just a bit of ice in the right places, Templars not noticing they’ve been frozen to the ground until they try to move and then it’s just a matter of watching her bash them right out of their greaves. She’s majestic, Dorian could watch her work all day.

The tavern collapses in a great moan of splintered timber and new flame fed by the sudden inrush of air and he has only an instant to worry, a glimpse of the Seeker’s wide eyes and then Thierry is in front of them with a coughing, trembling Flissa in his arms. He barely pauses to make sure Dorian has her before he’s moving again, up the stairs toward Adan’s shop, the Seeker on his heels. 

Flissa shakes against him, little whimpers with every other breath and Dorian gently wipes a bit of ash from her cheek with his thumb, the gesture enough to steady her, to turn her focus to him, and he smiles.

“Well, at least this solves the problem of paying my tab.” 

A long pause, and a shaky little laugh - and then Flissa screams, cowering as whatever it was at the top of the stairs explodes - but there’s the Herald and the Seeker, with Adan and an elven mage in tow. Barely a handful of people they can pull from the carnage, not much against the destruction rising up all around them, but he’s grateful for each one.

—————————————

When they finally reach the Chantry, it’s all Dorian can do to keep from falling over the threshold, staggering to the nearest bare patch of wall and taking his first few breaths in a while that haven’t come with the possibility of an arrow through the throat.

“Mage, here.” A flask of lyrium pressed into his hand, the Templar disappearing out the door before Dorian can even blink twice, and even as he tosses it back he can’t help but wonder if such a thing has happened before in the history of all Thedas, a southern Templar helping a Tevinter mage. He’ll be paying later for hitting the potions this hard - if they have a later. Being backed into a corner is hardly the same as being safe. As if to punctuate the thought, the dragon’s next attack lands close enough to make the entire building shake and groan.

The hall is packed with as many people as were lucky enough to reach it, and even though the Herald isn’t standing far away Dorian can’t hear a thing over the sounds of panic. He sees the young man who is assuredly anything but a young man say the word ‘Archdemon,’ his arm around a man in bloody Chantry robes, and the Herald looks determined and grim and the Commander looks grim and desperate. Dorian moves toward them, and by the time he is close enough to hear it seems they’ve come to a decision, though no one looks any happier for it. Running for the hills and burying Haven with the last shot, such a spiteful move that it nearly makes Dorian smile. Nearly.

“… What of your escape?” The Commander says, and the Herald doesn’t answer but Dorian has him in profile, can see the moment he accepts his fate and something inside him just _gives way_ , the anger so all-consuming Dorian has to look down at his hands to make sure he hasn’t accidentally set himself on fire. It’s not fair. 

“Perhaps you will surprise it. Find a way…” But Cullen doesn’t believe that, not for a moment. 

_Didn’t think it would all fall down quite this fast, did you, Pavus?_

He should have. As if Dorian hasn’t read enough of these stories, to know they only go the one way. Herald of Andraste, as if she lived to reap the fruit of her labors, not a peaceful day from the moment she’d been so blessed. _It’s not fair_ he thinks again, like a foolish child, as if any of this is fair or all those bodies in Haven’s streets are fair and it’s why he ran - he ran, and it was waiting for him here, just the same. Fight or be picked apart, with everything worth having torn away and he’s not a good person, he really isn’t. Dorian would like to do the right thing for selfless reasons, but there’s a pile of empty bottles and endless nights to prove that he just can’t survive the alternative.

The Commander turns away - calling to his soldiers, calling the retreat. From the corner of his eye, Dorian sees Bull exchange a few quick words with his lieutenant and then his axe is back up on his shoulder, turning toward the door. The crowd parts around the Seeker, who seems ready to drop the Archdemon from the sky with curses and paving stones, if that’s what it takes. 

“Well,” he smiles at the Herald, because he can always smile, “after my stunning display of heroics at Redcliffe, I believe it’s your turn to impress me.” 

“Dorian, I…” Worry and confusion on his face, as if he’s the only one who can do something noble and stupid. “I can’t ask you to-“

“So don’t ask.” Dorian says, and strides past Thierry before he can say another word.

It’s not that he wants to throw his life away, but this feels… honest. True. Dorian Pavus, felled in the service of his homeland, striking a blow against the Venatori and their allies - that is, if anyone bothers to tell the tale. Maybe Varric will put him in a side note somewhere - ‘Sparkler’s Last Stand’. He wonders if his father will ever find out exactly what happened to him, or if he’ll even care.

Felix will laugh, at least, when Dorian’s waiting at the gate to welcome him to whatever comes next. A shining, eternal ‘I told you so.’ 

The doors open, and the Red Templars are as relentless as waves, squad after squad crashing down, and Dorian’s rather done with ocean metaphors since the Waking Sea, thanks. He’s feeling the strain of so much uninterrupted casting, even lyrium potions are only capable of going so far but they reach the trebuchet at last and he can take a moment as Bull and Thierry move it into position. One moment to try and focus on the list that he’s been shuffling through since they left the Chantry hall - just what spell it will take to get the Herald through this alive, and just what Dorian will have to do to make that happen.

Spend the magic where it counts. Thierry needs to survive, it’s his power the Elder One is so concerned with snuffing out and obviously for reasons beyond the now-sealed Breach -

“Dragon.” Bull yells. “ _Dragon_!”

He dodges the fire, they all do, but Dorian’s holding back from throwing a barrier, conserving the few scraps of mana he has left, and the explosion catches him entirely off guard. A sudden, bone-jarring pain as what feels like half a building cracks against his head and he goes down hard, the world slipping around him like sand - not now not _now_. Dorian tries to stand, to focus but nothing works, his hands gripping fast but the frozen ground sliding away even so, the world a flickering view through a warped glass - Maker, if he’s going to die does it really have to be _this fucking cold?_

Everything upends itself in one violent move. Maybe the dragon has him. Or a Templar’s hacking him into little bits, but he’d think that would have to hurt more than this does. It’s hard to breathe, and his chin bangs against leather and steel - he’s being gracelessly hauled over someone’s shoulder, and that someone is running fast. His head’s about to come off from the pain and he’ll be grateful for that, but then Dorian looks up and it all stops mattering. 

The scene is bright and clear and fixed, at the end of a long, dim tunnel - the Herald framed by the long curve of a dark tail and the span of a wing on his left, and the towering form of the Elder One on his right, moving in for the kill. 

_Oh, no. No, not alone. Don’t make him do this alone._

Thierry stands tall and defiant, but he doesn’t even have a staff in his hand. He isn’t the Herald, not a symbol or a statue or an inspiring song for everyone to join in on the chorus. He’s just one man doing all he can and now he’s going to die horribly for all those good intentions and Dorian doesn’t need to see that. He already knows what it looks like, so it’s probably just as well when everything goes dark.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s as if nothing ever happened in Redcliffe - which is the truth, as far as the rest of the world knows. The town is quiet with all the mages gone and no one yet returned to replace them. Dorian didn’t get much of a look at Ferelden’s king - young and proud and justifiably furious, with little interest in speaking with the Inquisition.

The docks are quiet, with the sun just starting to bleed the clouds amber and gold. The castle shines, surrounded by water like glass. Kinloch Hold lies some distance past the horizon, at the far end of the lake. It’s all quite pretty, in a simple, rustic sort of… 

No. It’s just pretty. No demons. No magisters. All the pieces back in their place. No harm done.

Well, almost.

Dorian closes his eyes, the slight breeze fresh and sweet, and he hears a familiar tread on the planks behind him. Maker, he does not want to do this.

“I’m glad I got to see it.” Felix says, stepping up beside him. “There’s something to be said for wild spaces.”

“Try camping in them. I can think of _quite_ a few things to say.”

It could be a normal conversation, the same way a tightrope might only be a line on the ground, if not for the chasm beneath. 

“You’re going back to Haven, then?”

The Herald hadn’t even blinked, when Dorian made his intentions known. Instead, he’d been welcomed, offered a horse _and_ an Inquisition guard to insure Felix’s safe return to the border. 

“I hear it used to be home to a bunch of inbred, dragon-worshipping murderous cultists.” Dorian says. “A shame they’re gone. We could have swapped stories.” 

“It’s going to be boring without you around.”

As if it’s back to Tevinter and business as usual. As if what is left to Felix can’t be measured in what… months? Weeks? 

But that’s what he means. After.

“Don’t.” Dorian says, as his throat tightens and his vision goes blurred and watery. “You start in on that now and I won’t get through this.”

“Well, we can’t have that. You have appearances to undermine.”

A more pleasant thought, how many in the Imperium would howl to know Dorian Pavus will be the one educating the south on their behalf? Oh, the stories he can’t wait to tell.

“Did he say anything to you about Father?”

Dorian could hardly ask for mercy, but still, for the man he’d known, if not the man Alexius had become… and he understands at least some small portion of what Felix must be feeling now. 

“He won’t be made Tranquil, if it’s in the Herald’s power to prevent it.” Dorian had dared to question the possibility of that particular southern barbarism, the Herald’s reaction one of instant revulsion, as if the thought had never occurred. “I think he might have let you leave together, if the circumstances were less dire.” The Herald certainly hadn’t seemed interested in revenge or righteous vindication, obviously uncomfortable that he might be the one to pass judgment. “He said he didn’t see a point in pretending at punishment. He didn’t think there was anything more they could take away.”

Felix nods. Is he already looking paler, or is it a trick of the light? Either way, it’s going to happen, and it will be so much worse before it’s over. 

“I know of an herbalist in Minrathous. Extremely discreet, very good at her work, if you should need-“ The world should not allow moments like this. Dorian shouldn’t ever have to stand here, with the sun painting Fade-gold shades upon the water and ask if Felix has a way of killing himself before he’s in too much pain to manage it. “You do have a… plan, for later?”

“Who knows, if I make enough noise the Magisterium may see fit to solve that problem for me.” 

“Well, there’s a weight off my mind.” A quiet voice Dorian tries to ignore whispers that this is the best they’ll ever be capable of, all the fools who call themselves reformers. Grand and empty gestures in front of those with the real power, and only when there’s nothing left to lose. 

“A few of them have attempted to seize Father’s assets and holdings, everything they can get. Birds on a fresh corpse. However, I believe there are still some willing to come to my aid.”

“As long as you dismantle the estate afterward, and give it all to the poor?” Less a noble gesture than permanently ending the line, ensuring no distant relations can make any claim to power once Felix is dead. 

“I thought I’d free our slaves, and divide it among them. For a start.”

“You know they’re going to stonewall you. Declare you unfit.” _Wait you out._

“I’ll just have to cough on them until they decide it’s not worth the effort.” Felix smiles. “You only think I’m nice because I like you.”

He wills the sun to stay where it is in the sky. If this moment doesn’t end, then they don’t go forward, and this doesn’t have to be the last time he sees Felix alive. He won’t have to say goodbye. Dorian doesn’t have the words for this part. There’s nothing clever enough. 

“I’m sorry. I should’ve… I didn’t…” No, he didn’t, did he? He’d quarreled with Alexius and felt sorry for himself. _That’s_ what he’d done. “I’m sorry.”

Dorian ought to be comforting him, but it really doesn’t feel like that when Felix reaches out, draws him into a fast embrace. His friend still feels like himself, strong and solid and not already drifting away, out of reach.

“You stopped my father from making a terrible mistake. The rest was never your problem to solve.”

Ah, the inheritance of a thousand years of men for whom cosmic indifference was a personal insult. No, he knows very well he can’t save Felix and Dorian witnessed the result when Alexius tried, a limitless horror unleashed upon the world for a cure that never came. Yet the thought remains - _maybe if, there must be…_ \- and the guilt, because a solution exists for every problem, and in the end it is no one’s fault but his own if he can’t find it.

Felix steps back, gazing at him with a slightly worried fondness.

“I’ll be all right, Dorian. _You_ , however…”

“As if I could be anything else.” He says. “You know, I bet if I talk quickly enough, they might not even make me sleep in the stables. Do you think I’ll be able to tell the difference?”

Felix can’t help but laugh. “Oh yes, you’re going to blend right in. Just promise me you’ll be careful. I know you won’t, but do it anyway. It’s not like home. The name won’t get you far.”

“So, it’s _exactly_ like home.” Dorian claps him on the shoulder. “Don’t fret yourself, Felix. I’m sure the Herald and I will be fast friends.” 

——————————

A gold light arcs through the sky, like a falling star but in the wrong direction. Or maybe that’s because Dorian’s flat on his back. Why is he flat on his back?

Nothing is familiar, not the creak of wood or the thud of cart wheels and everything smells like smoke and all right so the pain in his head is a little familiar, but Dorian’s usually not quite _that_ bad, to be dragged off the streets by the morning cleaning crews. It seems some poor soul may have drawn the short straw on ‘Fetch Altus Pavus from the Hedge’ duty again.

A pinprick of startling cold against his face, and another, and Dorian reaches up to find his skin is wet and it takes him entirely too long to piece it all together - melted snowflakes, because he’s a world away from Minrathous, and the weather always makes itself known here, even now, in the middle of -

He sits up sharply, swallowing back against the pain as the world sloshes around him, dried blood flaking away from his fingertips as he checks the wound behind his ear. A nasty gash, but someone at least stuck around long enough to make sure it closed properly.

“Well done not dying, fancypants. Shirt. Fancy everything.”

The flask dangles in front of his face, and Dorian has it half-drained before he even tastes the edge of the elfroot on the water, the pain in his head easing with the next swallow. Sera’s propped up across from him in the cart, her armor badly damaged, one leg stretched carefully out in front of her and braced to a board, a purpling bruise on her cheekbone and perhaps the first time he’s seen her without a smirk or a snarl. Instead, she looks small and cold and very young. 

“What…” 

He lets the word die before he can even form the question. Dorian already knows the important part of what happened, and as for the rest? Qunari aren’t in the habit of retreating, and he can’t imagine Seekers care for it much, either, but there they are, walking guard at both ends of the far perimeter. Survival must have been a matter of seconds, of knowing that even self-sacrifice would prove meaningless. Or perhaps the line had broken behind them, and a last-minute intervention had kept any number of Red Templars from following them here. It doesn’t really matter why, does it? 

Mountains loom over them on all sides, dark and vast and indifferent. It seems he’s on the only cart not surrounded by a steady glow of healing magic, although his head has seen better days and it’s a toss-up whether that or the lyrium potions have left him feeling something fretfully close to seasick. A tattered cloak of survivors moves slowly up the mountain, wagons and animals and people marching or staggering or being carried out, away from the hazy orange sky behind the nearest slopes - that’s Haven, burning.

The sound’s a whisper at first, hardly a sound at all, as if the wind’s picked up, but a few of those around him look back, and then a few more as it grows too loud to be the wind. Everyone is looking by the time the whisper becomes a rumble and then a roar - snow against stone, as the mountain buries Haven and the sky goes dark. 

No one moves or speaks, even as the last echoes fade.

“So, that’s it, innit?” Sera’s voice is little more than a whisper, pale fingers worrying at the torn edge of her sleeve. “He’s gone.”

———————————————

Dorian forgoes his place on the wagon once he’s sure he can stay on his feet. His staff is lost, consigned to the rubble along with the rest of his possessions and too many people and Maker willing most of the Red Templars - and the Herald, of course.

In that future without him, they’d barely survived the year. The Inquisition has the mages now, and the Breach is closed, but neither of those facts seem all that comforting.

Sister Leliana watches him at a distance, a flicker of red hair like a banked fire beneath her cloak. The Left Hand of the lost Divine, and now the Herald’s slipped from her grasp just the same. Whatever Iron Bull can’t tell her the Seeker must know, as if there’s anything much to tell - but Dorian knows she wants to hear it from him, to know what he saw. Whatever it is she thinks he can add that will give this some kind of meaning.

He ought to sympathize, and it’s small and spiteful and petty but Dorian doesn’t want to tell her anything. As if it’s not enough that the Herald give up his life, that even his last moments must become an inspiring tale for the faithful. Who can say, maybe this Chantry of theirs will even overlook that he was a mage - or conveniently forget - and if any of them see this through to the end there might even be some remembrance. A dusty alcove, the Herald as a minor icon for nitpicking historians to squabble over. A man who was almost important for a very little while.

Dorian doesn’t care, and at the moment she can’t drag him off somewhere and _make_ him care, and it isn’t long before her attention turns to other business. He slips a few times in the snow, until a staff finally finds its way into his hands - simply constructed, a blunt-ended apprentice’s weapon - and Dorian tries not to think about who it might have belonged to or where they are now.

He tries not to think at all, easier to focus on burning down what little mana he has left to keep from freezing solid. At the moment, Dorian is mostly numb, and underneath the numbness is the vaguely queasy awfulness of payback for burning through that lyrium as fast as he had, and underneath that…

The wind picks up scraps of sound, carrying them to him from who knows which direction - the snort of a druffalo, the groan of men and women wounded and weeping. Praying. Dying.

It’s better than the silence. It’s too easy when it’s quiet to hear the Herald’s voice, cheerfully taunting him from the middle of their duel, muttering over some minor puzzle he’d lifted from Maker only knew where - or reminding Dorian to at least get his arm back should this all go as badly as it has.

_“Strap it to a pike and save the day.”_

It can’t hurt like this, and if he ignores it then it won’t. It doesn’t mean anything, just his usual irrational, overdramatic - he knew the Herald for what? A handful of weeks? Of moments? Mere trifles of time - nothing happened, nothing _happened_ so there is nothing for him to lose. 

A friend, maybe. One of the only- 

Stop it. Just _stop_. It doesn’t matter. It’s over. It never was and now it’s done.

The caravan pushes onward, slow but steady, and one can only hope they have a destination other than ‘away.’ Dorian’s certain he isn’t the only one glancing up at the sky - there’s no telling if they’re safe, if their little gambit worked even at such a high price and if they are attacked here and now, it’s just over. So they keep torches to a minimum and push ahead, the bitter wind hiding their tracks even as it makes things that much colder.

A cloak drapes over his shoulders, and though there aren’t enough layers or spells in existence to make this truly tolerable, Dorian draws it around himself gratefully, noticing what he’s wrapped in only after the fact. A Templar’s cloak, matching the one on the woman beside him, the one Cullen had sent to knock him around a field for the better part of a day - and even that had been enough to give him some edge against the Red Templars, to keep him fighting when others had been overrun. He thinks her nose might be broken, and there’s signs of battle etched across her armor but she’s here and walking and tonight that’s plenty good enough.

“We got him out. The Magister.”

“Alexius?”

“Yes.”

Alive, then, with so many dead. Alive, when he almost certainly does not want to be. The world is astonishingly cruel in its capriciousness.

A pale flicker catches both their attention - it’s that strange young man, again. Out of combat and still he flickers oddly across the mountainside, a firefly that hovers for a moment, in flight at the next. Dorian blinks and he’s near the front, blinks again and he’s on a cart, offering water, and then he’s helping someone who’s fallen in the snow, too exhausted to stand back up on their own. Unthreatening so far, and yet Dorian’s hand tightens a bit on his stave. 

“You know, I can’t help but have my doubts that he’s-“

“Human?” The Templar says. “The Commander’s aware. Unfortunately, we’re not in the best condition to challenge potential threats, whatever he might be, and…”

She trails off, because it’s obvious. A demon wouldn’t look so human and an abomination wouldn’t bother with patience. It would have already killed everyone it could have back in Haven, instead of fighting on their side. If Dorian were in any state to be interested, he’d find it all terribly intriguing, but instead he thinks it’s just the sort of thing the Herald would have loved to see, and then there’s just dull, iron-colored misery everywhere. 

The wind picks up, and the Templar shudders. Dorian has a hand out and reaching for her before he realizes it, and stops. At least she looks more surprised then alarmed.

“A simple piece of spellcraft. It’s not perfect, but it helps.” He sees the inner battle behind her eyes - suspicion, exhaustion, a lifetime’s worth of applying new coats of paint to a line that never gets crossed, all over a meaningless flick of magic. “Obviously it’s all part of my nefarious plan, a scheme of such rare and malevolent genius that even I don’t understand it. I do promise not to sell your soul until we find a buyer’s market, and considering the last one in a hundred miles just burned down-“

“Don’t shut up much, do you?”

“One of my many charms.”

The Templar shivers again, and gives the slightest nod of approval. Dorian barely has to tap her shoulder, hears the sigh of relief as the temperature around her rises to just above utterly miserable.

The irony of it all - and where would they be without irony - is that the destruction of Haven may finally be what brings them all together. He’d seen as much during the fight, the whole village standing united against the enemy, and in this aftermath it seems the boundaries have fallen even further away, Templars leaning on mages and the youngest apprentices being carried by soldiers rather than left to stumble through the drifts and magic everywhere because there’s no other choice. It might still go back to the way it was, if they all survive this - but he’s just cast a spell on a Templar and she didn’t cut him down for it. One step for pragmatism against southern Chantry rhetoric, and they’re walking side-by-side - nothing’s changed, but maybe that’s enough.

——————————————

It takes the better part of an eternity, but somehow they finally reach what counts as a destination, a plateau wide enough for everyone that’s left, blocked from the worst of the wind and not hideously exposed from every angle. It’s still completely vulnerable, but there’s a strangely relaxing feeling in having imminent doom taken entirely out of one’s hands. No point in worrying when the worrying doesn’t matter.

He can’t heal, but Dorian can do all sorts of other things and even without the magic he’s a working pair of arms and legs which is more than many have at the moment. His life falls into a steady rhythm of take-this-go-here-hold-this-tie-there-help-him-carry-this-warm-that-up. It would probably be good to sit down when the demands finally taper off, but if he does that he’ll have to think about his next move and Dorian would rather put that off for as long as possible. Which is how he finds himself holding a feed bag in the patch of roped-off snow they’re pretending is a stable, soft whuffs of horse breath and munching sounds lulling him into a nice, momentary bit of stupor.

A bit of cloth’s been tied up as a makeshift windbreak, with an anemic fire nearby, more of a suggestion of warmth than any actual use. The horse loses interest when the food runs out, which leaves Dorian to tend the tiny blaze, less humiliating when he can simply brute-force magic into tinder that’s too wet and logs that are too big and he really has used this stupid firestarting spell more in one week here than in the five years that came before.

“You don’t look.”

The voice is rough, soft, the Ferelden accent more pronounced when the Commander is tired. Dorian’s not entirely convinced of the fur-lined barbarian look, but he can’t help but envy that collar now.

“Beg pardon?”

“All the mages I’ve ever known wouldn’t cast a spell like that without looking over their shoulder first. Seeing where the nearest Templar was, who might be watching. Apostates are even more skittish. But you never look. You’ve never had to.”

It isn’t an unfriendly observation. The kind of thing a man might remark upon when his entire world has been upended - and from what Dorian knows, the Commander’s been here before. In the shadows of the firelight, he can see places where even Cullen’s unflagging determination has started to flake away, and what’s beneath looks weary and desolate.

“Here.”

Dorian takes the proffered mug. A thin, weak soup that seems to be made entirely of salt, but at least it’s hot salt. He’s not hungry, but it warms him up and who’s to say when the next meal will come or from where?

“A few of the locals say there’s a storm on its way. We’re piling up everything anyone managed to grab on the way out - at least some of your belongings may have made it through. In any case, we need to make sure everyone stays accounted for, and I’d appreciate having you in a good defensive position if, Maker forbid, this isn’t over. I can show you where to bunk down.”

Dorian considers an arch, suggestive reply purely out of habit, but his heart just isn’t in it. It’s so silent now he can hear new snow skittering across the top of the frozen drifts. The Commander shakes his head, chucking, the sound soft and bitter.

“From where you’re standing, I imagine this all seems like quite the black comedy.”

Maybe so, an amusing parable for the salons back home, for anyone who hasn’t seen Red Templars up close, or heard that corrosive, bitter melody. Dorian’s been witness to magnificent displays of stupidity, blood magic in the hands of the truly incompetent, and this is much the same. An entire army gorging on power and damn the consequences.

“You have a saying, don’t you - something about thrown stones and glass towers?” Dorian sighs. “In any case, I’m a bit low on smug satisfaction at the moment.”

He doesn’t succeed at keeping his tone north of dismal, and the Commander doesn’t fail to notice, giving him a thoughtful look that says that maybe he’d overheard some rumor about how and with whom the Herald spent his time.

“He stood long enough to bring down the mountain. Maybe…” Cullen tries his best, just like he tried back in Haven, but the spark of hope doesn’t catch any better than it did before.

“Wait. Did he happen to give you - do you by any chance have his…” Dorian frowns. “Damn, what’s the word - his phylactery?”

“What?”

“He brought it with him, from Ostwick. He intended to give it to you after the Breach was closed. An… opening gesture of compromise, between your mages and your Templars.”

How absurd it all sounds now. The Commander’s expression does something very quiet and surprised and painful all at once. “I didn’t… I didn’t know that. He never said… no, I don’t have it.”

The fire crackles. The wind shows little mercy. Cullen looks up from the flames, to where the stars ought to be. 

“I told him to go and die for us.”

Dorian sighs. “He would have gone anyway.”

“Yes, I know.” A glance in Dorian’s direction, and the Commander looks gilded by the firelight, all gold. As indomitable as one of those dwarven Paragons, a symbol of the age. It speaks to everything the Templars did wrong, if they’d ever had this man’s allegiance and let him fall to the side. “I haven’t given your courage the credit it deserves. We would have lost many more, if you hadn’t been there. You are a man of integrity and valor, and I hope… I hope we have the time to become better allies.” 

The sort of compliment solid enough to bruise, a handful of the Commander’s words worth an hour’s worth of most other men’s praise.

“Try not to go spreading that integrity talk around, if you don’t mind? People start to _expect_ things and that never ends well.” Dorian says. “Considering the current state of affairs, Commander, we may wish to skip the preliminaries and consider this a… retroactive rapport.”

“Cullen.” The smile suits him, weary as it is. “It’s Cullen. Seeing as we’ve been friends all this time.”

“Commander!” A scout calls out, kicking up snow as she struggles toward them, very nearly tossing herself into the fire as she skids to a sudden halt. “News from down the mountain. One of ours found tracks, ser.”

“The enemy? How many?”

“Just… just the one, ser. We lost the trail, but they were moving towards us.” Her eyes are wide, looking to each of them as if she’s not the one bringing all the news. “It could be… Sister Nightingale said we should keep it quiet, just in case it’s nothing, but-“

“Maker’s breath.” Cullen whispers, and Dorian knows better than to even let himself think it - but they wouldn’t call him the Herald if he hadn’t done it before.

—————————————

Of course, there’s no knowing if it’s Thierry or not. It could be anyone. It could be a Red Templar with more ambition than sense, out chasing promotions. 

Which doesn’t stop any of them from wanting to come along. The Seeker is there, the Sister already has her agents moving and no one told the Iron Bull but that doesn’t stop him from currently taking point on their little rescue mission. 

“We must keep an eye on the weather.” Cassandra says. “It will hardly be a rescue if we get lost ourselves.”

“It’s just up.” Iron Bull says. “No big deal. He’s just got to keep going up.”

Unless the Herald’s too injured. Unless he gets confused, and ends up wandering in circles. Unless he’s already dead. Of course, the Qunari knows all that already, which is why he’s refusing to consider it.

He’s an excellent leader, especially when the drifts are waist-high, and Dorian trades off places with the Chargers’ second-in-command, moving in single file behind Iron Bull through the freshly tamped-down snow.

“The myth, the legend…” Krem mutters.

“… the snowplow.” Dorian agrees.

“Oh good.” Iron Bull rumbles. “A spare Vint. Who couldn’t use one of those?”

Dorian tips his head slightly. “So that _wasn’t_ you ordering your lieutenant to take over in Haven?”

“Krem’s Chargers? You have to admit, Chief, it has a ring.”

It’s much easier to keep things light than to think about how little chance they have of success No one wants to be the first to ask just how long they’re going to stay out here, how bad the weather will be before they have to turn back. Dorian can’t help but bargain with the indifferent sky - an hour, just give them an hour. Once this storm hits, the odds of anyone surviving alone on the mountainside will go from laughable to impossible. The longer they don’t find anything, the more difficult it’s going to be to turn around. 

Which isn’t a problem, as the Herald has already done most of the work of saving himself.

Thierry’s watching them quietly, on his knees in the snow perhaps a dozen feet away. Bowed low with exhaustion but Dorian can see his breath in the air - alive, he’s _alive_ \- the relief and disbelief a crushing thing, so fierce it hurts. Dorian can’t make a sound, it’s the Seeker who gasps and Cullen who shouts, rushing forward. The corner of the Herald’s mouth tilts in a small smile as he finally falls, slumping forward against the Commander’s shoulder. Iron Bull is there in the next moment, kneeling down.

“Give him to me. I’ve got him.”

The only one of them with any hope of carrying a man of the Herald’s size, and the Qunari lifts him like a child, and when he takes off for the camp it’s nearly at a full run, leaving the rest of them to flounder and follow as best they can. Dorian can hear it, when they hit the edge of camp - Iron Bull isn’t bothering with subtlety, charging right up the middle with the Sister calling out orders and the Commander calling out more - and everyone is staring, wide-eyed as the word spreads of just who’s been brought in, the reprieve no one was expecting. The miracle.

Oh, but Thierry’s going to _hate_ that.

Just as long as he survives to do it. The more light there is, the worse the Herald looks - pale and gray and Dorian tells himself he’s imagining that blue tinge to the man’s lips. Iron Bull lays him down gently as the healers rush up and Dorian reaches for the nearest blanket - it’s a little trickier to heat fabric than liquids, as they generally prefer to combust, but tricky is his stock in trade and in a few moments the blanket is toasty warm. Which may be the only thing going well.

The healers are doing more frowning than healing, while Iron Bull swiftly divests the Herald of both armor and clothes, working with a cautious gentleness at odds with the war god who’d been cleaving Red Templars in half not so long ago. The Herald looks like a man who’s been hit by a mountain, bruised and battered further with every inch of skin revealed. The worst of it is on his marked arm, deep black and blue marks from the wrist down, but Iron Bull looks a bit less worried, and even more so when he gets the Herald’s boots off.

“No signs of frostbite. Good.”

“That’s the part where bits fall off, yes?” Dorian says. “Why does this weather even _exist_?”

The healers continue to stare baffled at their own hands, their magic weak and guttering and Dorian has an ugly suspicion - the Mark _has_ changed, yellow at the edges like an old, festering wound and the crackle of it sharper, brighter. Carefully, he reaches out, a barrier spell inert enough that it ought not to hurt the Herald, even if something - and Dorian grimaces, feeling the magic crumble and collapse, as if it’s being unraveled from the other end.

“Get Solas. The Mark… it isn’t right.”

“Are you sure?” Cassandra says.

“I do _occasionally_ know what I’m doing, thank you.” Dorian snaps back, with more venom than it deserves but he’s too rattled to care. “Being a sin in the eyes of the Maker ought to require some sort of bare bones competency. Otherwise you’re just being provincial _and_ inconsistent.”

He could shut up, he really could, but it’s all caught up with him now - nearly being dead and then not being dead and the Herald being dead and then not - Thierry somehow alive, somehow right _here_ , right under his slightly-shaking hands and Dorian can’t see how to fix this and if the Herald came all this way just to die now because the clever little idiot Altus can’t figure it out…

“First in my year for six years running, took the laurel _twice_ at Marnas Pell - first in practicals, first in applied theory, salutatorian of my graduating class-“

“Only second place?” Cassandra mutters dryly.

“The valedictorian slept with our instructor before I had the chance to. Little minx.”

“… he’s even more chatty when he’s nervous? Never could have guessed.”

Dorian looks up. The Herald looks back, his gaze hazy and half-focused and very much alive. “Hey.”

A great many things tumble over each other in the rush to be the first stupid thing out of his mouth. _How are you alive? Thank you for not being dead. I shouldn’t care this much when I don’t know if you care at all and I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. Thank you for not being dead._

“Hey, Bossicle.” Iron Bull rumbles from somewhere behind his shoulder. “Glad you could make it.”

“Did I? Oh, that’s good.” The Herald murmurs, eyes closed again - and one of the healers tries another spell and this time the reaction is instant and violent, the Mark twisting, writhing as Thierry chokes back a cry of pain.

“Go find Solas. Tell him it’s urgent.” Cullen orders, and Dorian hears someone take off at a run, just as there’s more movement behind him and it’s Vivienne sweeping into a chair next to him because of course she’d know where to find one of those, reaching for Thierry even as he tries to pull away.

“No magic. Don’t… I can’t…”

“I would hope I had more sense than that.” Vivienne says, as cool as ever, though she’s gentle when she takes the Herald’s hand in her own - and she’s checking his pulse, not just the Mark. “You’re rather the wrong color for the season, my dear.”

“I’m j-just ahead of the t-trend….” Thierry says, finally starting to shiver, and there’s another blanket being passed over Dorian’s shoulder and for a while there’s not much else to do but heat and reheat what he’s handed while the majority of the Herald’s inner circle watch and fret - Leliana has vanished, likely off on the important task of still not finding Solas and Vivienne departs as quickly as she’d arrived, when it’s clear there’s nothing more she can do. 

At least she leaves the chair behind, and so Dorian sits there and… continues to hover. Feeling rather useless as the healers ply Thierry with one hot drink after another, until he’s shivered himself past that alarmingly unfashionable shade of cadaver and into something slightly more alive. The Mark continues to be a torment, his eyes slipping closed but his whole body still tense, wincing every time his fingers twitch.

“I need the C-commander.” Thierry finally says. “Cullen and Cassandra and… everybody. G-get everybody.”

“We’re here, Herald.” Cullen says.

“Maybe this should wait. You are in no condition-” Cassandra starts, but Thierry shakes his head hard - and when he opens his eyes it’s Dorian he looks to first, his gaze is the same as it was that first night when he’d smiled so brightly, terrified of how how much depended on their success when he was so completely unprepared.

“Oh, we’re in trouble. We’re in big, s-stupid trouble. You’re g-going to _love_ this.”

“You know what it is.” Dorian leans forward. “It spoke to you? What did it say?” What he’d seen made no sense, and Dorian hadn’t bothered to care even trying to parcel out the possibilities until this moment - an abomination? Explain the Archdemon, then - some sort of… demonic darkspawn? Just what have the Venatori been playing at-

Thierry laughs. An ugly sound for an ugly punchline.

“… for I have seen the throne of the gods and it is empty.”

——————————————

’Corypheus’.

No, really. 

After a few minutes, the Ambassador realizes _someone_ ought to be writing this down, and there’s a quick shakedown of the camp for a spare bit of graphite and the back of a sheaf of documents - one of Varric’s drafts, if Dorian had to guess. Maybe she promised to give them back afterward, just in case he wants to get a head start on the next story no one’s ever going to believe. ‘The Tale of the Champion’ sold as well in Tevinter as any book that blew up a southern Chantry _and_ saw the mighty Arishok felled by a single woman. A shame she hadn't been a mage, or Varric could have had the hat trick.

“You said he had some sort of… weapon, boss?”

It’s a tight fit, so many people in one tent and that’s not counting the fact that Iron Bull has to keep his head down to avoid putting his horns through the roof. Dorian’s always been a bit curious about the war room, and now he’s here among the Inquisition’s best - even if the Herald is doing a better imitation of a table than anything else at the moment.

“An orb. Maybe stone? Pale stone. Etched all over, didn’t look like writing, though. About as big as… a globe, maybe. He palmed it, but he was a big bastard. Strong, too. Had me three feet off the ground by one arm, tossed me around like it was nothing.” The bruises that wrap around his arm are from a _hand_ , Dorian can see it now, larger than life. “Maker, the power coming off of him…”

“He say what all this was about? What he wanted you for?” It must be part of that Ben-Hassrath training, the easy, lulling tone and it probably works well even when the target isn’t a half-conscious ally trying to tell them everything. Thierry chuckles again, lifting his marked hand slightly.

“He called it the Anchor - and it was connected to that stone of his, somehow. He tried to… take it back, rip it right out of me but it didn’t want to go. It really was just a mistake, whatever I walked into. I think that pissed him off more than anything. Seems I was poking around where I shouldn’t have been.”

“ _No_ , that hardly sounds like you.” Dorian says, and Iron Bull frowns at him for the interruption but the Herald grins and that’s what matters. It’s impressive how much the Herald remembers, recounting the Elder One’s proclamations nearly word-for-word, and every one of those words another nail in the coffin of Dorian’s hope that at least a few southern prejudices were more fiction than fact. Yes, Altus, it seems your people _did_ in fact break the whole damn world. 

“Good job on the details, boss. We could train you up into a half-decent scout.”

“It was a better distraction than wondering when he’d let the dragon bite me in half. Archdemon. What kind of a dick brings their pet archdemon to a fight?” Thierry blinks, and frowns. “Where are we? Are we all right here? Are we safe?”

No one’s quite certain how to answer that. The Herald smiles wanly. “I’ll take that tense, loaded silence as a ‘don’t ask.’ How many did we lose? Cullen, how bad was it? Half? _More_ than half?”

“Less.” 

It’s not a lie, though not by enough to make anyone happy. Thierry nods, grimaces at another sharp flicker from the Anchor - he’s past his last reserves, and Dorian is about ready to go find the elf himself, drag him out of the Fade if need be when he feels a draft behind him as the tent flap opens wide and he glances over his shoulder as Solas and Vivienne enter - and when he turns back there’s a figure, impossibly, on the other side of the tent. Dorian hears the Seeker draw steel, a curse from the Commander - not exactly the room for a sword fight and who can say if that would even work. The pale boy doesn’t move, his eyes just visible from beneath the brim of his hat.

“I told him to come. He can help.” 

“Thank you, Cole.” Solas says, kneeling at the Herald’s side, eyes narrowed, one hand hovering over the Anchor. Thierry keeps his eyes on the young man, who keeps his shoulders hunched, the posture of someone who prefers a shadow to hide in.

“You were at the gate.” The Herald says. “Ahead of the Templars. You tried to warn us. What… are you?”

“Spirit.” Solas says.

“Demon.” Vivienne says, and they spare the moment to glare at each other. 

“Everyone’s happier.” Cole says. “Hurting but hopeful. It’s better now. Even though you didn’t win.”

Thierry snorts. “Yeah, we’ve been working hard to keep those expectations low. Why did you follow us up here?”

“I want to stay. I want to help.”

“We cannot trust it.” Vivienne says.

“ _He_ has given us no reason not to.” Solas replies.

The Herald cocks his head in weary calculation, staring from one mage to the other, and then at Cole.

“Any plans on eating my head in the next twenty minutes?”

“I don’t… think so?” Cole says cautiously, trying to work out the trick in the question. “No.”

Thierry nods. “Well then, I’ve got bigger problems. He stays.”

The young man disappears in the next moment, as if he were never there at all. The Herald sighs. 

“Yes, that’s not unsettling in the _slightest_. I can’t imagine how this could bite me in the-”

Dorian isn’t certain what Solas does, but the Anchor sparks violently, a sudden, wild lash of sickly, yellow-tinged power that sends him diving back as Solas is nearly thrown off his feet and the Herald screams, a tight, animal whine of pain that Dorian could go without hearing again _ever_ if it’s all the same, thanks.

He knows the Seeker shares similar abilities with the Templars, but this time when his magic fades it’s not a sudden, vicious absence but a gentle ebb. Thankfully the Anchor quiets as well, Thierry panting softly, sweat-soaked and shaking in the aftermath, his whole body curled up around the marked hand clutched tight to his chest. Dorian wants to reach for him, and Void take what anyone else might think of it, but there’s no saying it would do more harm than good. 

“Thank you, Seeker. I… misjudged.” Solas looks angry with himself. “It will not happen again.”

“Will he be all right?” Cullen asks, as if there’s much they can do if the elven mage doesn’t know how to fix this.

“I believe I can undo the damage, but it will take some time. I would advise that any further questioning wait for now.”

“We have more than enough to discuss as it is.” Leliana nods. With that, the tent quickly clears out, Iron Bull holding the flap open, more than one parting, worried glance back from the Herald’s advisors and then they’re all gone. Dorian has no real excuse to stay except that he does not want to leave. 

“It’s… dislocated. In other circumstances, I would be relieved by how crudely Corypheus wields his power.” Solas murmurs, hand ghosting over the Herald’s arm, and thankfully the Anchor doesn’t see fit to fret about it this time. Still, that doesn’t sound like a problem with a pleasant solution.

“Are you sure this can’t wait?” Dorian says softly. “If you haven’t noticed, he’s not exactly at his best.”

He can feel his mana returning, but the Anchor grows brighter as well, and the Herald’s endurance can only hold out so far, especially given the night he’s had.

“If we do nothing, it will only get worse.” Solas says. “We have few means of treating his other injuries while the mark interferes.”

“I’m okay…” Thierry whispers unconvincingly, as much breath as voice. “I’m… well, doesn’t matter. S’ okay, Solas. You do what… you have to do.”

“If it helps,” Solas says, “you don’t need to be awake for this part.”

The Herald huffs out half a laugh. “And with that, you are officially my favorite person. Ever. I’ll make it a decree, as soon as we have a way to write one up and a wall to hang it on.”

“Not that I’m not glad to hear it,” Dorian says, “but we can’t use magic to put him under, and even if a potion would work, I don’t know where we’d get-“

“Allow me to solve that problem for you.”

Vivienne holds a standard flask, but what’s inside is anything but, and Dorian catches an unexpected scent, the strange, cool tingle of it in the back of his throat as she moves closer.

“Magebane?” Solas says.

“Among other things,” she says. “I keep a small supply at hand, for moments like this. I assure you, he won’t be feeling anything on either side of the Veil for quite some time.”

Moments like this? How often does a Circle mage have moments like this? Perhaps the tales he’s heard of Orlais have been underselling it. Dorian wonders if there’s anything in that small supply of hers that isn’t incapacitating, if not lethal. 

The Herald raises an eyebrow, more amused than suspicious, and she arches one fine brow back at him.

“I hardly need to poison you, darling. If I wanted you dead, it seems far easier just to wait.”

Thierry sighs. “You know, I never meant to disappoint you this badly.”

“It’s not entirely your fault. Obviously, I expected more than I should have.”

“Not that this isn’t all _terrible_ fun,” Dorian interjects, “but now may not be the best-“

Thierry interrupts him - it’s his marked hand he lifts, holding it in full view before her.

“If it was up to you, Vivienne, if it had all been your call to make at the start - what would you have done with me? One mage. All that power. Not really sure where it comes from? What _do_ the official Chantry guidelines say?” She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to. “I wish I could play it safe, but I’m not sure what ‘safe’ looks like anymore. We’re kind of off all the maps, here.”

“So, we are all to suffer, then, for this new world of yours?”

“I’d rather you help me build it, if it’s all the same. I don’t think we have to like each other much, to still find some common ground.”

It’s a white flag, if she wants it to be. _We’re probably never going to agree on anything, but I still respect you, and I’m glad you made it out alive._

Vivienne doesn’t seem to know how to handle the concession. Dorian can sympathize - it’s disconcerting, having people actually say what they mean, holding out an open hand that won’t turn into a fist at the first opportunity. Whatever she might think of the offer, it stays well hidden behind her eyes - though she does set the potion down.

“Do try to get some rest, my dear. A great many people are counting on you.” 

Vivienne leaves. Solas frowns.

“You may risk more than you intend to, in courting her good opinion.”

“The only worthwhile connection we still have to the Circles or the Chantry? What half the world considers the only lawful option? If I’m going to lose that bridge, it burns from her side.” Thierry reaches for the potion, swirls it and then shrugs, drinking it all at once. “Figures. It doesn’t even taste bad.”

He lies back, looking up at the elven mage. “You know, the last time we did all this, I ended up a Herald of Andraste. If I wake up king, you and I are having words.”

“I should gather some items while that takes effect.” Solas says, and maybe he’s telling the truth or maybe Dorian now owes him one, but either way he and the Herald are suddenly alone. One more late night meeting. One more than he’d ever expected to have.

“You all right, then?” Thierry asks, because that’s what foolish, selfless Heralds ask.

“Always.” Because that’s what clever Tevinters say. “I must say, I am still a bit curious at how you managed to stall Corypheus for so long.”

“He’s a mage, an _old_ mage - just get them talking about how brilliant they are and they never shut up.” 

“I did spend a lot of time pondering how to conjure a spirit that might take my place in the lecture hall.”

“We used to bribe the Templars to call an emergency when the Senior Enchanters rolled into the third hour. It usually worked, when they weren’t already sleeping upright in their armor.” He smiles, but it doesn’t last long, and then his gaze turns inward, quiet and dark. “It doesn’t even matter, does it, if I know what I’m doing or not? I… don’t know how to beat him. I don’t know how to win this.”

When in doubt, treat victory as a foregone conclusion. Thankfully, he only needs to feign confidence until the Herald is unconscious.

“Well, there’s always the Anderfels. An overabundance of mountains - if we keep dropping them, one’s bound to stick eventually.”

The Herald shifts a bit, trying to get comfortable. Dorian fights the urge to tuck the blanket in around him. “So _that’s_ who the Venatori have been been following all this time? Makes perfect sense. I know when _I_ look at a nine-foot-tall red lyrium-crusted darkspawn Magister, my first thought is ‘yes, that’s the team for me.’“

“It does put a bit of a tarnish on the whole ‘my homeland is more than a training ground for competitive stupidity’ argument.”

Dorian needs books, research. Histories and manuscripts and access to a few dozen ancient documents that are - oh, just _bathe_ in the irony - completely beyond his reach in the moment he needs them the most. He’s as good as blind otherwise, and no use to anyone that way.

“Hey, guess what? I can do a… thing.” Thierry lifts his marked hand ever so slightly, wiggling his fingers. “New Rift thing. ’S pretty great.”

“You describe it so well, it’s like I’m standing right there.” 

“You nearly were.” Soft surprise in his tone, and amazement. “You went out there with me. All the way down.”

It’s unnerving, to see the look so many others give the Herald now staring back at him - admiration, even awe. As if Dorian had done it for any noble purpose, anything other than hating the thought of the alternative. He is not designed to live with failure.

“Yes, well, that _is_ where all the glory happened to be. Until you went and upstaged us all. Again. I think you may have some sort of complex.”

Thierry laughs weakly. “If this is the glory, you are more than welcome to my share.”

The wind’s picked up outside, pushing against the canvas, but it’s still plenty warm inside. It seems the potion’s starting to work- the Herald’s breathing eases, muscles relaxing slowly as the pain fades.

“He wasn’t the only one there, to crack the Golden City. I wonder what happened to the other ones. The other Magisters?”

“Let’s just table that question until we’re not in a drafty tent on an indefensible mountaintop, shall we?”

“It was his fault. If it’s true, then he really did start the Blight. The rise of Andraste, the fall of the Imperium - he did it all to himself.”

“One of our more regrettable talents.” Maker, now if only he could get them to _see_ it. For every step forward, Tevinter takes three back, and whatever advantages they might have over the ‘lesser’ peoples of Thedas - and the more Dorian learns out here, the more he realizes just how crap _that_ argument is - the Imperium seems absolutely determined to piss them all away.

If the Elder One is who he says he is, they’ve been doing it practically from the start.

“He looked tired. Corypheus. He didn’t… he just looked so tired.” Thierry murmurs thickly. “He can’t win. We saw that. Even if he does, it’s not really, it won’t do what he wants… and I think he _knows_. How terrible, to know it, when there’s nothing else…”

“Shh. It’s not important now. Just rest.” 

Dorian’s a tactile person, at least behind closed doors, and the Herald certainly deserves whatever he can give, even if it’s little more than brushing the hair away from his eyes, a thumb rubbing gentle circles against his temple, because if Thierry’s at all like he is, his headaches like to roost in the same place.

 _Amicus est tamquam alter idem?_ Yes, Dorian. That’s certainly keeping things in perspective. The only hope now is that maybe he’s misread everything, and the Herald will shoot him down at the first available opportunity. Or perhaps the dragon will come back. Either will work.

“You know, Herald, I can’t see that I’m entirely to blame for this. If you’re going to rush heroically into martyrdom and then _return from certain death_ , I don’t have many options.”

“… ‘rian?” Thierry frowns, eyes closed, barely holding on. “… you say something?” 

“Just sketching out the details of my inevitable humiliation. Don’t worry, there’s not much else to do until you’re awake enough to appreciate me properly.”

“Nn.” 

_Kaffas_ , and he’s going to have to learn to heal now, isn’t he? At least enough that he doesn’t feel so utterly ineffective, the next time they all end up here.

At last, the Herald’s finally asleep, and if the mark on his hand still looks a wreck at least he isn’t feeling it. Dorian allows himself a fool’s indulgence, carding a hand through Thierry’s fine, dark hair, catching at a few tiny fragments of wood and stone - Maker, it had been so damn close.

“Building walls that won’t hold the weight, fearful, wanting, waiting, hoping to stop the hope but it breaks through anyway. If no one can see, then the hurt never happened. But it’s still there.”

So, it’s more than just those wicked knives they have to watch out for. Cole takes a step forward, and Dorian leans in, a protective arm across the Herald’s body. 

“Do mind your distance, please.”

He trusts Solas enough to assume the boy - spirit - whatever isn’t inherently dangerous, but this isn’t the time or place for taking chances. Cole stops, tilting his head, eyes narrowing as if this isn’t a silent tent in a snowfield, as if he’s trying to pick out some distant conversation in a crowded room.

“His sister would stroke his hair, when he was sick. He liked it. It made him feel safe.”

Before Dorian can even think of how to respond, the young man is gone again. A bit unnerving, that, and Dorian is used to the odd habits and attentions of spirits. The Seeker must be beside herself with frustration. He wonders how many shields she’s already torn in half.

“So, you have a sister?” 

Maybe the Herald will tell him about her someday, and the rest of the Trevelyans. Or perhaps not - even in the best of circumstances Dorian’s not exactly the sort to be brought home to meet the family, a creature of parties and pleasures and knowing when he’s not invited. But who can say? Thierry is obviously a man who prefers the impossible.

“One can hardly consider this ‘safe,’ but… I’m here, for whatever that’s worth. I’m right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thanks again everyone for the kudos and nice comments. I hope I am an entertaining distraction from all the things you have to do and don't want to do.
> 
> 2\. Blood magic always struck me as similar to that quote about computers, handguns and tequila. Always potentially disastrous, even for mages who have taken every possible precaution and ridiculously accessible to those who probably shouldn’t be allowed to make toast by themselves.
> 
> 3\. _“Ipse enim se quisque diligit, non ut aliquam a se ipse mercedem exigat caritatis suae, sed quod per se sibi quisque carus est. Quod nisi idem in amicitiam transferetur, verus amicus numquam reperietur; est enim is qui est tamquam alter idem.”_ \- Cicero
> 
> “For everyone loves himself, not with a view of acquiring some profit himself from his self-love, but because he is dear to himself on his own account; and unless this same feeling were transferred to friendship, the real friend would never be found; for he is, as it were, another self.”
> 
> 4\. Maybe let’s avoid doing another chapter this long again? Damn.


	10. Chapter 10

Dorian never intends to become Skyhold’s unofficial librarian, though what part of this Inquisition ever happens on purpose?

He doesn’t know who managed to grab most of his personal effects, maybe one of Leliana’s spies, but it’s all returned in short order and he’s certainly grateful. Unsurprisingly, mustache wax is another thing they don’t seem to believe in around here, and the homegrown alternative will no doubt haunt his dreams should he dare to seek it out.

It seemed quite unlikely that any books survived the loss of Haven, but he forgot that many of the mages had been in circumstances little better when they’d abandoned their Circles for the first time. Dorian notices the shelves lining the rotunda walls, and as they don’t fall out when he puts a hand on them, it seems sensible enough to suggest any random volumes be stored there, at least temporarily.

When he catches a random workman at the wall tearing a page from a second-edition copy of _Avilius’ Enchiridion_ to roll up and stir a pail of mortar with, Dorian _shrieks_. 

It’s far from his finest moment, but he can’t help it, and the honest horror in his subsequent, insult-ridden tirade is probably the only thing that saves him from death by hammer. He rescues the book, of course, and spends the next few days making sure no other tomes are at risk of annihilation, retrieving them from dire, spine-breaking drudge work as shims, weights and - _Maker preserve_ \- coasters in the bar. Which means that approximately half of Skyhold knows him as the Surprisingly Durable Evil Magister while the other half is familiar only with a strange, screaming man waving around smelly old books no one cares about.

It takes two-and-a-half weeks for Josephine to get the first decent trade route cleared out to the keep, summoning it forth by sheer force of will and the determined application of Cullen’s troops, an all-day and all-night affair expedited greatly by teams of mages. The Inquisitor is out there more often than might be entirely necessary, but it’s the sort of unadorned magic he enjoys most. Lift rock. Make bridge. Fix world.

The first news Dorian receives is of Felix’s death. 

The second is the _entirety_ of Alexius’ private library. Four crates half as tall as he is and twice as wide. It takes two whole wagons to cart it in.

 _I couldn’t remember which one was your favorite_ , says the note - it must have been the very first thing Felix had done when he’d returned, and Maker only knows _how_. Dorian’s heart breaks as he laughs and it really is going to be all right. 

He spends a good deal of time carefully unloading the unexpected windfall - Maker, there are some volumes here he doesn’t think _have_ second copies - setting aside a few books that rapidly become growing piles of potentially useful avenues. And that’s when he isn’t caught up in a sudden moment of nostalgia, more than one book he’d intended to finish but never had the chance. Dorian isn’t even halfway through the first crate before he’s being asked where new volumes ought to go - the mages are finally settling in, it seems, or perhaps the rotunda’s stacks can offer better security than whatever they have. He does put up all the usual wards against fire and water and theft, at least on the rarer tomes. 

Sera makes the deliberate mistake of doodling on the first few pages of _Copa's Third Folio of Entropic Theurgy_ , and Dorian considers being the better man for exactly half a second before he sics a spirit on her. Nothing dangerous, nothing that’s going to do more than hover and stare disapprovingly for a few moments but her scream resounds through Skyhold and Dorian ends up dodging half a quiver of arrows fired from the tavern roof and before long they’re both standing in front of Cassandra, who is an eye-twitch away from testing out a few of the cells in Skyhold’s rather expansive new prison.

One of the Tranquil takes up a position on the opposite side of his floor - or, more accurately, she’s been placed there. A fellow researcher, though if Dorian wanted to he’s sure he could ignore her altogether.

“You’re… Helisma, yes?” He says, instead. “I was nearly engaged to a girl by the last name of Herathinos once. I do believe you have the better smile.”

“I am not smiling.”

“Exactly.”

Her lack of emotion does not keep her from having rather strong opinions, and she ‘does not prefer’ to hold back on suggestions of how she might best fulfill her duties, which resources would be most useful to gather, or that the book he’s reading is sloppily researched - and no, that is not her opinion, it is fact. Tranquil shouldn’t be capable of arguing, from what he knows of it, but Helisma often seems to come quite close. 

At first it’s terribly sad, and time passes and it’s still terribly sad, what ought to be a whole person frozen instead in some sort of stilted half-life. Dorian treats her the way he does anyone else lucky enough to be graced with his presence for hours at a time - quiet teasing, continual banter, occasional flirtation and the hope that maybe somewhere, somehow there’s a part of her that still appreciates the gesture.

Solas orders his own exhaustive list of research materials, and they engage in several spirited debates on the best system of organization while the rest of the tower looks on, not quite daring to cut in. In the end, the rule stands that anything that ends up on Dorian’s shelves is subject to Dorian’s rules, and he manfully resists nearly every urge to toss scrap paper balls over the railing. 

——————————————————

The mages finally seek him out en masse, just as Thierry thought they would. Various members of various Circles, most of them whispering at him behind tomes or pretending they’re not curious, making some declarative statement about his evil intentions or his evil practices or the evil curl in his hair before they get down to the shiny brass tacks of wanting all the answers, what’s it’s like to actually live in the place where mages never stopped ruling.

Dorian Pavus, Crusher of Dreams. It’s rather refreshing, actually, how many of them seem relieved to find out that it isn’t all glory and wonder, that being a mage elsewhere doesn’t necessarily lead to a perfect life, and they’re just as likely to find what they want by staying where they are and trying to make it work.

The mood is hopeful but threaded with anxiety, then, when the Inquisitor calls the mages to assembly, all but his first order since he’d raised the sword. Dorian comes in late, and keeps to the back of the room, not wanting to be a distraction. It helps that the mages are too busy bickering amongst themselves to even take note of him - and my, already such dramatics! Close his eyes and he could mistake it for Vyrantium during the summer they’d had that spider infestation.

You’d think enough high-level lightning could solve any problem, but no. Not really, no.

Whatever Fiona was expecting, seated at the front of the hall, he doubts it’s the Herald walking in with Cassandra on his left and Cullen on his right, this no longer a mages-only event. Vivienne is in attendance as well, the unofficial official voice for the Loyalists, as calm and regal as if she had been the one to be named Inquisitor.

Dorian already knows most of what Thierry’s going to say, all those thoughts he’d sketched out in Haven, when it seemed little more than wishful thinking. Skyhold’s changed all their circumstances, there’s no denying it - this place has the potential to be a great many things, and perhaps the first true opportunity for the free mages to look around and take a breath and actually consider what their future ought to be.

Thierry smiles, greeting a few of the mages by name and swift to make assurances to the rest - no matter what is said here, agree or disagree, no one will be left out in the cold, not with all that’s happened or what’s yet to come. Skyhold is their shelter, just as Haven was, and perhaps it might yet be their home. He thanks them all, for their bravery and their service - and then he draws out his phylactery and hands it to Cullen, just as planned. Dorian hears the low murmur of surprise echo around the room.

“For the next time you have to come dig me out of a snowdrift,” he says, and a tense, nervous laugh sparks here and there among the crowd.

Time to sell it. The Herald speaks of Corypheus, one time that rumor is nearly as bad as the truth, and the battle before them now. He tells them what he wants for Skyhold, and for the Circles he hopes might convene again - places of learning, of safety, this time with open doors. The need for oversight of mages by mages - _and_ by Templars, the men and women who’d fought by their side in Haven, an Order that should not be allowed to die. He wants the Inquisition to stand for transparency and accountability, and for those to stand with it to remember the responsibility of those with power to the powerless. The rules that have to exist, and those who must have the authority to enforce them, to keep that balance in place.

_“The Libertarians will tell me to soak my head, and the Loyalists will say I’m eroding the very foundations of what I supposedly want to save. Maker, do you know I barely made Junior Enchanter, and that’s only because we sent a few of ours to Perendale and the Seniors needed another scribe?”_

Thierry’s counting on the moderate majority, the Aequitarians - now there’s a word with a bit of history, no doubt - and Dorian can see angry expressions here and there but there are also nods of agreement, curious glances passing back and forth, cautious but not inherently hostile. 

“So what does this mean for us now, exactly?” A voice rises up out of the crowd, a young man with his shoulders squared and a sharp edge in his voice, obviously expecting the worst for speaking up. “I was set to have my Harrowing just before everything got tossed to the Void. What is the Inquisition going to do with me, with all of us, once this all gets ‘balanced out’?”

“The Harrowing is a flawed solution at best, to a problem I’m not certain we ever truly understood." Thierry says. "You’ve lasted this long, you must be doing something right, and I refuse to believe that tossing mages to demons and waiting to see what happens is the most efficient way to stop abominations. We lose good people when we don’t have to, and this is an opportunity to change that, to find a better answer.”

Judging by the surprised look on Cullen and Cassandra’s faces, this may have just veered off-script.

“What about the Rite?” A cry from the back of the crowd, no question of what he’s referring to, and Thierry’s eyes narrow. It’s so rare for him to truly wield the power he holds - but the Inquisitor’s voice is hard and absolute.

“The Rite of Tranquility will never be performed in Skyhold.”

Dorian hides a smile behind his hand, as the room erupts into chaos, surprise and cheers and fierce arguments, the Inquisitor carving out a new position of compromise and understanding that pleases exactly no one.

A part of him watches it all with a clinical eye - this is history happening right in front of him, a test case. Reform in action, and even if the particulars are different the scope of it is nothing to scoff at. He wishes he had any truly useful advice, but Dorian’s still not sure what will even make a dent back home, where he actually knows the politics. Dealing with the Venatori is a purely reactionary move - necessary and more than a little satisfying, but hardly a step toward real progress.

Maker, and even if they _did_ somehow manage to gain a real foothold, what then? The longer Dorian looks, the more he considers, the larger the scope of a problem that already yawns in front of him like an endless chasm. The Imperium is collapsing in on itself by degrees, just slowly enough that they can pretend it’s not - and how is that different from what happened here? How many of the mages gathered around him now had ever thought it could come to this?

How does an unjust system change when those who rule profit directly from the injustice? Could Tevinter even survive a shock like the one they’ve gone through here? Would the Magisters at fault even _allow_ it to survive? Dorian hates to think he’s already had his answer, staring back at him from across a frozen lake - the wretched remnant of his people at their supposed height of glory, Corypheus ready to burn the entire Imperium to ash in order to save it. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a familiar, pale flicker, and it appears Dorian’s not the only one trying for a low profile - although being a spirit seems a somewhat unfair advantage.

He’s seen Cole once or twice in the courtyard, and spent a quarter-hour pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping as the spirit boy and Solas engaged in a conversation that might as well been in code, for all the enigmatic metaphor.

Cole is a research project with unlimited possibilities for funding. He is at least two volumes of an advanced Fade studies dissertation that everyone would dissect in private but scorn publicly because obviously he ought not to exist. He _can’t_ exist, and Dorian can cite at least half a dozen reasons why. He knows spirits. He learned from the best - spirits are Fade energy influenced by external emotion, little more than forces of nature given base form, and one harnesses them the same as a windmill, or a waterwheel turning to grind grain. They are not people.

Except when they’re crouched three feet in front of him, watching the mages bicker with wide, nervous eyes.

Bloody useless stupid fascinating Fade.

Dorian learned from the best, and in the end that is mostly a matter of unflinching academic rigor. Studying the Fade can be as much about the researcher as the research, and so success demands a strange balance of all pride and no ego, of being assured of one’s own abilities while being forever vigilant against dogma. If he wants to be right - and there’s little point in being anything else - Dorian must be prepared to shed false beliefs when presented with an incontrovertible truth, no matter how much has to go or how uncomfortable it might be to lose it. 

He hasn’t sought Cole out yet, because Dorian has the uneasy feeling that once he has more than a bare glimpse of what’s actually going on under that upside-down bucket the boy keeps insisting is a hat, it might very well unravel a considerable portion of twenty years of study.

Well, at least he won’t be bored.

—————————————

Dorian receives his first scrip - an actual _paycheck_ , the shame of it!- though the insult is softened somewhat by the note from the Ambassador mentioning that they don’t actually have anything to pay him with yet, and if he wouldn’t mind holding on to it they’ll get back to him. Eventually.

It isn’t as if he’s in any desperate need. The room he’s been given is tucked away in a quiet tower corner, warm and cozy even with the window that gives him an impressive view of the mountains beyond. Luxurious enough that he’s a little embarrassed - being a runaway exile ought to involve a bit more asceticism, surely.

He’s not about to bid for a space in the stables next to Blackwall, mind.

The Inquisition’s inner circle are perpetually hard at work, conjuring the best plan of attack from reports, conjectures and what seems an endless number of equally dire threats. The shadow of Haven stretches out long, even with the increasingly sturdy walls of Skyhold rising up around them. If he walks the courtyards at night, Dorian has his pick of muffled conversations in quiet corners, sounds of sorrow and worry. The tavern is always full. Dorian can’t say much for the current selection, but the fact that the Ambassador found a steady supply of _anything_ drinkable ought to merit a statue in her honor, at least.

He researches Corypheus, as much as he is able, which isn’t nearly as much they require. Dorian’s still trying to process all that, honestly. He’d never been able to buy the official line that Tevinter had nothing at all to do with the Blight - it read too clean, too much like trying to dodge responsibility. Still, there’s a bit of distance between ‘not entirely innocent’ and ‘completely culpable’ and he’d like to tell himself some convenient lie - that Corypheus could be anyone, anything - but anyone or anything else would be easier to sell than what he claims to be. It’s such a pile of unnecessarily histrionic nugshit that it certainly _feels_ like home.

Dorian researches the Veil, the Anchor, the Shards. He researches the time magic he’s almost ready to test. The research on whether the Spymaster’s birds are molting more than they ought to be is unsurprisingly inconclusive, but it seems to clear up on its own.

He’s still quite utter shit at the healing magic no one knows he’s trying to learn. It’s not difficult to manipulate a small amount of energy, but that’s not going to do much good in the next emergency, and Dorian refuses to fail then for not figuring it out now. Spirit Healing seems the fastest path forward, but it doesn’t seem to get along well with the Necromancy at all and Dorian can’t be entirely certain but he thinks the last spirit of Fear he’d summoned instead of the Faith he’d meant to might have even shrugged at him before fading away. 

He could ask Solas.

He’s not going to ask Solas.

All of this is very important business, for the very important business of saving the world and it almost - almost - distracts him from how little he sees the Herald anymore.

Dorian misses their nighttime chats. It’s rather impossible to justify a casual trip to the Inquisitor’s quarters now, not with all those stairs to climb and only the one way in or out. It was different in Haven, everything a bit more slapdash and easier to explain away. Temporary dalliances in a temporary life. Skyhold is in all ways a vast improvement - it’s safer, it’s far more impressive and no one seems to own the land its on, at least not enough to protest before they’ve had a chance to dig in - but that means every action holds even more consequence. Dorian planned to make his move on the Herald and he hadn’t expected it to go particularly well. Propositioning the Inquisitor seems like a far worse mistake, and he has no reason to think Thierry won’t feel the same.

Except he’s not exactly being ignored. True, the Inquisitor is a rare sight even at a distance - always in motion, always speaking to the mages, or reviewing strategies with Cullen or Leliana, making certain Skyhold’s reconstruction is coming along as it should when he’s not out greeting new arrivals. He rides out for a half-day mission to close a nearby rift and comes back four days later with twelve mages and half a dozen Templars seeking refuge.

Yet even with all that, one morning there’s a book waiting for Dorian on the chair he’s commandeered as his own. A message is tucked inside, a little doodle of a map directing him to the opposite corner of Skyhold. When Dorian follows it, he finds an entirely new library, buried in cobwebs but with books that date back to at least the last inhabitants of the keep. He considers his options, and writes a list down of the materials he’ll need to have any hope of even a half-assed restoration, putting the note back in the book and leaving it in the chair when the day is done.

A box with everything he’d requested is waiting next to the chair when he returns in the morning, and a new note as well. 

_Nice handwriting._

Thierry’s isn’t bad either, though that ought to be a given for any mage. Ought to be. Hardly is. The Archon’s penmanship is atrocious, a rumor that he hasn’t actually written a word of his own in over a decade.

It’s how they communicate, then, trading notes as the days go on - news from the Inquisitor of some sort of Arcanist set to arrive, and ‘experts’ supposedly on their way, to teach him new skills in all that free time he has. Dorian writes back with any particularly interesting bits of research or spellcraft or whatever else might catch his attention - a sketch of one of the Spymaster’s birds that hopped down to their level for a half an hour, or the quick musical notation for whatever Solas didn’t realize he was humming as he painted. Thierry replies with an equal amount of thoughtful rumination and utter nonsense:

_Estimated percentage of mages that turn abominations w/o Harrowings in Tevinter?_

It’s not that accidents don’t happen, accidents _always_ happen, some of them even unintentional, but Dorian had been far less afraid of demonic possession on his first trip to the Fade than the mockery over whatever remained of his corpse should he be stupid enough to fail.

_Varric’s chest hair vs. your mustache. Three rounds. No tag-outs. Odds?_

_Found potential location for proper dueling arena just outside of Skyhold. Field trip._

_Official Inquisition Motto - ‘It Was Like That When We Got Here’?_

And, after another four-hour marathon meeting with the mages that resolved with a continued lack of resolution,

_Solas said ancient mages in Elvhenan spent years crafting a single spell. I can believe it._

——————————————

Dorian’s alone in the rotunda once again, at an hour not worth mentioning when he realizes he’s translated the same bit of script three times when it hadn’t needed to be in the first place. A good sign that he ought to pick it up again in the morning.

He can reach his quarters a few different ways, but even on the colder nights he prefers to leave through the main door and catch sight of the stars above the open courtyard. It seems he may be growing slightly accustomed to the weather. Slightly.

“The Daviauxes are quite devoted to the Chantry, so that should work in our favor, but they had some financial misfortune related to the fall of the Starkhaven Circle prior to the mage rebellion, and may not approve of your… elevated position.”

“Is _that_ what we’re calling this now?”

The door to the Ambassador’s chambers is slightly ajar, blazing with light and activity. Dorian’s never had much reason to curb his curiosity, but he’s never been quite this richly rewarded for it, either.

Thierry has his arms outstretched, his measurements being carefully taken by a servant as lines are carefully drawn across the fabric stretched on Josephine’s swept-clean desk and it is _exactly_ what it looks like - the Inquisitor being dressed with the drapes.

Dorian starts laughing. He may, in fact, never stop. 

The servants look up at him only briefly, too busy to care. The Inquisitor grins. The Ambassador does not.

“Ah, Lord Pavus. How… kind of you to join us.”

They’re well past titles at this point. Josephine only bothers being so courteous when he’s managed to annoy her. Dorian perches himself at the edge of a low sofa, well out of the way, and he really ought to stop laughing but it’s just too perfect. Exactly the sort of story people who didn’t like the Inquisition would tell, the kind of warning he’d have received if he’d bothered to ask for one before leaving. 

“Our shipment of more appropriate formal attire did not arrive as expected, and there are not many in Skyhold with the Inquisitor’s measurements… or with much interest in staying fashionable.” Josephine says, as if proper context makes this any less hilarious.

“So you’ve resorted to repurposing the curtains?”

“Second-best curtains.” Thierry says. “Bull keeps saying shirts are overrated, but I’m thinking his nipples could probably shatter dragonbone by now, so…”

The seamstress making the first cut in the fabric nearly chokes on her laugh.

“It seems a bit early to be planning Skyhold’s debut, don’t you think?” Dorian says. “A bit less shabby than it was, perhaps, but they are still pitching rubble out the holes in the walls.”

Josephine’s extremely non-ambassadorial expression is grateful he’s pointed out the obvious.

“A few of our… noble allies were concerned about what happened at Haven and hoped for personal reassurance that our current situation is more secure. I did suggest that we are still in the midst of settling into our new accommodations and may not be able to provide the standard of service and security they require but His Lordship was… not so easily deterred.”

The wealthy and curious wanting a closer view of the overturned cart, all the better to gossip among their friends and neighbors. Or the first chance to see whether or not this new and improved Inquisition is any more a threat than the old.

“I still say it’s not too late to go back on this whole Inquisitor business.” Thierry says. “The Fereldens have some wonderful mabari-based legislative systems just waiting to be tested.”

“That is not possible. I’ve already ordered the stationary and had the towels monogrammed.” It’s even odds whether or not Josephine is joking. “Besides, you are Free Marches nobility. It’s not as if you are entirely unfamiliar with events like these.”

“We’re Ostwick nobles, not exactly the fancy Starkhaven kind.” Thierry shakes his head. “The last formal party I attended, I was fifteen, and I spent most of that one hiding under a flower arrangement. Up until now, my life’s ambition was to get the credit for doing all Senior Enchanter Marten’s translations, since he could never be arsed to double-check his verb forms.”

Dorian looks up. “Which book was this?” 

“Most recently? _Heusosim's Grimoire of Artifacts and Relics, Volume III_. You can probably find it under ‘Toenails of the Lesser Martyrs of the Tower Age’.”

“A treasure, I’m sure.” As if Dorian has any right to talk. Half his early manuscripts wouldn’t deserve the honor of rotting away in a sub-basement.

“Well,” Josephine interrupts briskly, “you must be pleased that your time is now being put to better use. Let us continue with the preparations. Whatever his sense of timing, Lord Daviaux is quite a wealthy man with connections that we could use to great advantage. As long as the wine shipment arrives on time, and the ovens can be convinced to work properly, and they don’t notice that we may very well have half of Starkhaven’s rebel mages perched in our rafters.”

“Breathe, Josephine.” Thierry says. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll just set something on fire. That always works.”

“Yes, of course.” The Ambassador allows herself the tiniest pause. “Now, remind me of the seating arrangements?”

The Inquisitor takes a deep breath, like a student at lessons. “I’m at the head of the table because no one had the good sense to make Cullen the Inquisitor. Lord Daviaux is on my left, and then his wife, followed by Duke Marchand and Cassandra, because someone has to supply the gravitas and Leliana runs too fast. Ser Parrish is on my right, next to Comtesse de Gagnier and her two daughters. Unless the trade deal goes sour before they arrive, in which case Marchand will be sitting where Parrish would have been, and I’m not allowed to mention iron mining, the price of wheat in central Ferelden or… pickles. Pickles?”

“Pickles. Or silk.” Josephine nods. “Also remember to compliment the Comtesse on her dress. It is your favorite color, and you’re surprised she could have guessed so accurately. Now, as for your own remarks…”

It’s a good little speech the Inquisitor has prepared, although Dorian has the feeling it’s already been worn in. The woeful tale of the death of the Divine, the fall of Haven and the rise of a monster from the very depths of the Chant of Light itself. Of course any devout Andrastian would be glad to help kick such a creature back to the Void it came from, and please pass the hat for a worthy, darkspawn-filled cause? It all ought to be self-evident, but if people ever bothered with what was self-evident none of them would be here.

Dorian isn’t there for the dinner, of course, or the conversation that follows, pickles or otherwise. He does manage to catch sight of the very end, lords and ladies all gathered together in the main hall, a riot of what seems mostly cheerful noise, suggesting the timely arrival of the wine shipment if nothing else. 

Josephine is with them, and if she’s not pleased she’s also not too harried to fake it. Cassandra looks as satisfied as she ever bothers with - and there’s the Inquisitor, calm and polite in a dress coat that hardly looks as if it had once been over a window and Dorian only realizes that he’s still watching when Thierry finally notices him.

His smile is bright enough that half the people in the hall turn to look, just to find out who the Inquisitor is so happy to see.

——————————————

Which means it’s not his fault.

… it’s not _entirely_ his fault.

Dorian is quite happy to mind his own business, in the gardens for a little break to see if one of the botanists might be able to spare a pot and a few blood lotus cuttings for one of Helisma’s latest experiments. It’s a complete coincidence that he arrives just in time to see Thierry step in to the small, private chapel tucked against the far wall, and Dorian really has no intention of following him.

Until he sees the Revered Mother watching. 

Dorian’s reputation has improved where it’s most useful, and yet not far enough to ruin his dashing, nefarious mystique. It’s a surprise that he’s in the Commander’s good graces, though many simply think he’s lying to the man. Making his stand at Haven had allowed for some grudging respect even from the Seeker - though even that hasn’t done anything to improve Mother Giselle’s opinion, the way her eyes always narrow at the sight of him, somewhere between grim disapproval and smell of nug droppings. Maybe it’s his decadent origins. Maybe it’s Corypheus. Maybe it’s a dozen quite justified complaints, but Dorian is fairly certain she wouldn’t care so much about any of those if not for a few choice rumors involving a particular Herald of Andraste.

Naughty Tevinter, getting his sticky fingers all over her virtuous icon. 

Dorian has little choice, then, but to enter the chapel and shut the door firmly behind him.

He regrets it immediately.

Thierry is turned away from the entrance, leaning against the wall, one hand over his face and the other holding a piece of parchment, half-crumpled. He seems half-crumpled as well, shoulders jerking slightly as he sobs, hitched breathing harsh against the silent stone.

The Inquisitor has perhaps what - five minutes a week where he is not required to be someone’s savior, where he can be other than some tale of heroic glory sprung to life? He did not tuck himself inside this bolthole in the hopes of finding an audience and Dorian needs to leave, _right now_. 

Unfortunately, while this is the right idea, Dorian’s boot heel hits the edge of a torchiere and knocks it against the wall, as if he’d intended to make as much noise as possible. He tries not to cringe as Thierry’s head snaps up in a mix of surprise and alarm. 

“Oh, hey. I didn’t…” Rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, and there’s the last look Dorian wants to see, as Thierry very deliberately sets himself to the side. Inquisitor first, person later. Later, when he can escape fools who barge right into his private sanctuary. “Did you need something? Is everything all right?”

“It appears the answer would be no. Mind you, that’s only an educated guess.” 

Thierry drops his eyes, but allows a shaky smile, and perhaps the Inquisitor can be put away for a few moments more. It’s all quite familiar ground, public personas detonating behind closed doors. Maybe Solas is right, and the elves invented every other damn thing the Imperium has to offer, but Dorian will still champion the carefully honed perfection of their fucked-up coping mechanisms. 

He should apologize for intruding. He should excuse himself and go.

“Is the news very bad?” 

Considering all that’s happened so far, Dorian doesn’t even want to guess.

“What?” Thierry glances down at the paper in his hand, as if he hadn’t remembered he was holding it. He looks embarrassed rather than miserable, which is a relief. 

“No, it’s… good, actually. Everything’s fine. My older brother, they’ve just had another child. A little girl. It seems they sent the letter some time ago, before… before we lost Haven. He says everyone’s all right, or at least they still were when this was written. I don’t know… there’s still no damn word I can count on, and nothing from the Ostwick Circle, or whatever’s left of it. I just… it all just sort of hit me. I don’t know when I’ll get back there again, and all this-” He makes a gesture that covers all of Skyhold and likely a good deal beyond. “… and now I’m the _Inquisitor_ \- whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

He doesn’t want to be. Dorian had seen it, in the moment Thierry had ascended those stairs and they’d handed him the sword and he’d frozen. Glanced back just for a moment, looking for a way out. Dorian wondered if they’d even thought to ask him, if there’d been any warning before they’d set him in front of the crowd and he couldn’t back down. Maybe he could handle being the Herald, closing the Breach and slaying demons and even working for peace, but this? Figurehead for the entire Inquisition, leader and diplomat and any number of other things on demand, and he’d damn well better be up to the challenge because if he fails even once, they're all doomed.

“I guess I just realized how much I missed them.” Thierry sighs, leaning against the wall. “I’m usually there for times like these.”

“You had permission to leave your Circle?”

He nods. “Special dispensation. I was allowed out once or twice a year, escorted home for holidays and special gatherings. Benefits of having a house that tithes _very_ faithfully. Or they assumed I wouldn’t run, and make trouble for the rest of the Trevelyans. Or because the Templars liked to slap-fight over who got to accompany me home for a feast at our table. I’d probably put my coin on that last one.” 

“Are you from a large family?”

“I’m the youngest of four. There’s the Bann, of course, and our stepmother, Lady Christiane. She has two daughters from a former marriage - they’re young still, just coming of age. My sister Gwenira is the heir of our house. Broden is second in line - it’s his child they sent word about. Elie’s third, and then there’s me. Nieces and nephews makes it…” Thierry frowns, counting, and Dorian is impressed when he gets to the second hand and keeps going. “Twelve, with this newest arrival. My sister has three, and now this brings Broden up to… Maker, nine now?” 

No one in Dorian’s acquaintance ever had more than three, and even that was quite rare. He tries to imagine that many people at one table, add on the spouses and any extant cousins or uncles, as well as a few visiting Templars? It sounds like chaos. If the wistful look on Thierry’s face is any suggestion, it’s of the best kind.

“You’ve never been anyone’s crazy uncle, have you?” Dorian shakes his head, and the Herald grins. “You should try it sometime. It’s heaps of fun. All the popularity, zero responsibility for any subsequent mayhem. Maker, they were always so excited to see me. Uncle Theo the mysterious mage, _and those are real Templars, too. Just look at their swords!_ No one could beat it.” He sighs again. “I’ll have to think of something to send them all, once the roads open back up.”

 _If they’re still all right._ What he’s thinking, almost certainly, and Dorian would like him to stop worrying over that, since there’s nothing to do but wait. He’d very much like to get that look off the Inquisitor’s face, as if his respite’s over, and now all that remains is figuring out how to pick up the world, heave it over his shoulder and step back out the door.

It’s funny, that his heart’s beating just that little bit faster now - but it’s been a while since Dorian’s had anything to lose, at least in this. The one thing about it never mattering is that it never matters. All his joys may be measured by the strictest boundaries, but then so are the disappointments. He’s playing outside all the rules now, just like he’d sworn he wanted to, and it feels that little bit like untested magic, that despite all his caution and care this might just be the time it decides to tear him in two.

He’d been a little afraid, honestly, that he’d forgotten how to feel like this.

“You know, Inquisitor… back in Haven, even before you sealed the Breach, I made myself a promise.”

“Oh, did you now?”

The Inquisitor is curious and amused, though he is quite often both these things. Dorian takes a step forward.

“I did, and considering the likelihood of the world to come crashing down around our ears at any moment, it seems even more foolish than usual to be faint-hearted.”

“Well, _that_ was a lot of words.”

“I keep a surplus.” One more step. The Inquisitor still hasn’t moved, though his expression is unbearably hard to read. “Yes, well… I’m just glad that was good news, or this would be even more horribly inappropriate.” 

Dorian takes that last half-step and kisses him, before he can waste another moment thinking. He’s good at this part. The rest exists on a somewhat dire sliding scale, but this part? Golden. Mostly. 

One moment passes, then two, just enough time to wonder if he hasn’t, in fact, deluded himself into imagining all of it, stupid longing seeing what isn’t there. It would hardly be the first time. 

The only thing left to do is open his eyes and see if Thierry is about let him down gently, because there’s little it seems the Herald doesn’t do gently. Dorian will, of course, shrug it off, keep things light - he knows those lines by heart - but even as he goes back on his heels, takes a breath and squares his shoulders and prepares for a graceful exit, the Inquisitor leans forward and down, capturing his mouth with a kiss of his own. 

Maker, that’s nice.

It’s the really good part, and Dorian has this moment at least, to do nothing but enjoy it. A mage’s casting skills don’t necessarily translate to the bedroom, but Thierry certainly kisses like he duels - focused and intent, holding nothing back. So careful, though, with his hands up on either side of Dorian’s face, the lightest touch. He’s warm all over, their bodies pressed together nearly tip to toe as the Inquisitor pushes him back against the wall - wait a minute, when did they trade places? - but who cares, really, because Thierry hasn’t stopped kissing him, one of those hands - the marked one - falling away to brush against his hip, hovering near his waist as if not quite sure where to start, and Dorian grabs that hand, presses it hard against his side and feels the Inquisitor shiver.

 _He might not want_ you _, you know. He might just want this._

Fine. Whatever. Dorian’s done more with less. Honestly, this is all worth it if it gains him nothing more than knowing Mother Giselle frets away on the other side of that door, increasingly fevered fantasies no doubt piling up around her with every minute that passes.

“You’re laughing.” Thierry says, drawing back just far enough to speak, just that little bit out of breath.

“You are, too.” Dorian says, though trying to pull a sentence together while looking at the Inquisitor so close up is more than a bit of a challenge. “It just occurred to me that I didn’t _intend_ to come in here and ruin the Revered Mother’s day.”

Thierry frowns.

“Did something happen between you two?”

“It seems some time ago in a place I used to live, there was a prophet unlucky enough to get herself set on fire? Ancient history, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it. Also, as you are well aware, I’m secretly plotting to tear down the Inquisition from within.” 

“You should wait until we actually have something worth tearing down.”

“I can’t possibly be expected to stay that long.” Dorian sighs. “I suppose I’ll just have to sell you to the highest bidder instead.”

Thierry chuckles. “Promise me you’ll hold out for the really good stuff.”

Dorian could, of course, name his price. Anyone in the Imperium would give him anything he asked for. He’s received that letter already. Leliana’s _allowed_ him to receive that letter, he’s sure, just to see what might happen. It isn’t even Venatori business. Word of the Herald and that little trick of his has already spread to all the wrong corners - at least a dozen names off the top of his head, men and women with no connection to Corypheus who’d gladly flay Thierry alive, take him apart an inch at a time just for the slightest chance of learning more about the Anchor. 

The Inquisitor is never going within a hundred miles of Tevinter’s borders, that’s for damn sure.

“You smell so good.” Thierry’s hair tickles his collarbone, as the Inquisitor buries his face against Dorian’s neck, breathing in. It never seemed like the sort of thing to be that exciting, but at the moment Dorian’s rather glad the wall can prop him up. “How do you always smell this good?”

“I didn’t realize you’d been… nnn… paying attention.”

“Yeah, a little bit. What’s the word… constantly?” the Inquisitor says, pressing a kiss to his bare shoulder.

Dorian makes an amused, nonchalant little noise, but he always smells this good because he pays a considerable sum for the privilege, his current preference expensive enough at home and it will no doubt break him to have it imported here but of course there’s the counter-argument of the man currently nuzzling at his neck and that’s an easy choice. 

Thierry smells clean, mineral or herbal, usually from whatever he’s been tinkering with last. If Dorian looked now, he’d probably see a thin, elfroot-colored line beneath his fingernails.

He doesn’t usually have the time for thoughts like this. It’s been more of a formula for some time now, with just a few of the particulars swapped out here and there. Add the occasional whip or chain if someone’s desperate to to show off, but always with an eye out for a knife in the dark. Always with an eye on the door. Dorian has learned, for the most part, to take whatever’s being given - it opens up the playing field, so to speak. As long as he’s the one doing all the asking. As long as he pretends not to recognize certain men he passes on the street, who look away from him with poorly disguised disdain. It hurt a bit, that first time, but now it’s mostly an amusing curiosity. 

Fascinating, really, the stories people will tell themselves about who they are.

A small part of him is waiting for it to happen now - it can’t be _that_ different in the south. Soon enough, Thierry will let him know the rules for however this - whatever this is - is going to proceed and Dorian can tell himself he’s got his dignity but really, who is he trying to convince? 

“You were laughing.” He murmurs, maybe trying to get it over with, maybe trying to put it all off that moment longer. He’s rewarded with another one of those long, intent kisses, another smile, this one small and wry.

“I just thought… Maker, it never changes, does it? A whole mage rebellion and a stupid castle they say is mine and I’m _still_ left sneaking around where no one can see.”

Dorian’s heard about this, too. Rules against fraternization in the Circles. Grown men and women treated like children - and no, perhaps not everywhere and not all the time but it was always an option. Thierry ought to be able to enjoy his freedom now - and he’d be able to, with a less problematic paramour. 

“You know, this might be a bad idea.” Dorian offers, and the look he gets in return is warmer than anything he’s done to deserve it.

“It’s a _good_ bad idea. Trust me. I can tell.”

He’d consider arguing - there’s certainly a case to be made - but the Inquisitor’s tongue is in his mouth and that’s much more important than whatever point he thinks he’s trying to make. It’s all going to the Void one way or another, Dorian. Enjoy what you’ve got while you’ve got it.

It isn’t until the Inquisitor grinds their hips together and startles the moan out of him that Dorian realizes exactly _how_ much he’s enjoying this.

“Well,” Thierry says, his eyes soft and dark, “I suppose this is where I say something clever about proper worship on my knees?”

All right, so that _is_ the Herald of Andraste offering to suck him off, and this moment will have pride of place in his fantasies for the foreseeable future, but it’s also that little bit horrifying. Dorian assumed he could take this slow. He’d assumed - for some logical reason that has now evaporated completely - that it would be his job to seduce the Herald. It’s certainly the story everyone else will tell, but hasn’t he learned by now that the stories everyone else tells are the ones most likely to be wrong?

Of course Dorian wants this. Anything that ever wanted anything would want this, and that’s even with knowing how it will probably all end right after, how he’s gone and burned through the best day in recent memory all at once. Maker, can’t he just have this for a while? He wants Thierry to touch him like he actually cares and stay close like it matters and it doesn’t have to be forever or even very long, he’s not stupid enough to ask for it, but please just a little more, please just that. 

“Not that it isn’t tempting, but I’m not usually _quite_ this blasphemous before lunch.”

His confident tone trembles at the edges, and Dorian curses himself for it. Thierry blinks, a little confused. Surprised, obviously expecting a bit more actual decadence from his decadent Tevinter representative. Dorian barely stops himself from lunging forward, offering anything, _everything_ \- but that look doesn’t slide into annoyance or disappointment, and he doesn’t step away. 

“It’s probably better I work up to the ‘Full Dorian Experience’ anyway. Otherwise, I might not survive.” 

A gentle jibe, allowing him a graceful retreat without even asking why. 

Thierry looks away for a moment, and Dorian follows his gaze, up toward the statue of Andraste. It’s somewhat similar to those back home, though she carries no staff here, of course. Dorian’s wonders what the truth of it was, if she were really a mage or not - he’s inclined to think so, if only due to her success rate. A shame they don’t believe it in the south, when it seems like the kind of thing that ought to inspire them, here. A mage, setting down rules for the limits of their power. A mage, fighting for everyone’s right at a better life.

“So,” Dorian says, “when they inevitably make a statue of you?”

The Inquisitor nods. “I want someone making out under it, yes. As often as possible. Can I kiss you again?” 

Dorian leans forward, murmurs his approval against Thierry’s lips. The Herald rarely seems as large as he is, rarely tries to intimidate but now with Dorian pressed so close he’s _everywhere_ , vast and strong and damn but this is nice. It always seems like too meager a word, not anything worth striving for but he’s seen enough now to realize that this, the quiet ease of moments like this that never happen as often as they ought, where everything is just how it should be - _nice_ might be the rarest thing in the world.

“I should have paid you a visit long before now. All those weeks, wasted.”

“What? In the tower?” Dorian says, feigning shock. “Oh, but the scandal!”

“Making out on books. My two favorite things, together at last.” Thierry chuckles, and the sound slides down Dorian’s spine like honey-slicked lightning. “Everyone giving us the evil eye. It really will be like Ostwick.”

“Just me. You are, mercifully, exempt from all charges of impropriety.”

It’s getting more and more difficult not to mark him, a little love bite somewhere the Inquisitor can’t quite cover. He shouldn’t want to get them talking - but a part of Dorian is too proud of himself to want anything less. Of course, it would somewhat go against the notion that he isn’t trying to kill the Revered Mother outright.

The Inquisitor’s fingertips flick against his clothes, playing lightly over every buckle and seam.

“I bet I could figure a way around that. A few ways.”

“No, it won’t work.” 

“So, wait a minute,” Thierry says, a warm hand on Dorian’s chest, pushing him back just enough to speak. “You’re telling me that _none_ of this gets to be my fault?”

“Regrettably, no.” Dorian says. “You’re merely the helpless victim of my overpowering combination of cunning and charisma. Also probably blood magic, but I like to think I could still win on charm.”

“Well, _that’s_ some druffalo shit.” He laughs. “I can make so many stupid decisions without your help. Ask Cassandra what I was like before you got here.”

“It’s not my fault either, Inquisitor. I didn’t make these rules.”

Thierry’s expression goes suddenly quiet, almost solemn. His hands tighten ever so slightly on Dorian’s sides. “No… we didn’t, did we?”

It’s so much more than he had any right to ask for. The Inquisition by itself is more than Dorian could have hoped to find, to stand in Skyhold and feel the world change around him - and now here’s the Herald, and this… whatever it is, however long it lasts. Of course he glances up again, one more look out of the corner of his eye to where Andraste’s statue stands, eternal and vigilant and he doesn’t believe in blessings, he doesn’t pray for luck, but still… _thank you._

“I don’t suppose you want to help me make some new ones?” Thierry says.

“Well,” Dorian sniffs, as if considering, “It’s not exactly a sonnet in my honor, but I guess it will have to do.”

Mother Giselle can fret a little while longer. She’ll certainly have reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Thanks for reading! Thank you to all the commenters and kudos…ers, too. (Did I say shorter chapters? Hahahaha… hah.)
> 
> 2\. I’m a pretty big devotee of West Third Brand’s scent line. At the moment I’m imagining Dorian in something like their Sandalo Tuberosa: “Dark tuberose essence infused with orrisroot, sandalwood, smoky patchouli and Vetiver.”
> 
> 3\. Solas and Cole and the development of just how the Fade works and what spirits are is probably my favorite bit of worldbuilding from this whole game.
> 
> 4\. Small hiatus. Going on vacation. ^^


	11. Chapter 11

He’s nearly eight. 

It can’t be long now until Dorian gains his magic - he’ll show it young, the best always do - but until then, it mostly feels like waiting around. At the moment, he’s been passed off to the estate of their nearest neighbors, while his parents have gone off to this week’s Significant Event - much like last week’s, though hopefully with better food. His father considers Magister Merula a friend, though - a _real_ friend, not just alliance or obligation - and a true mark of that trust that Dorian is allowed to be here now. 

Dorian’s mother thinks it as much a matter of friendship as a House that lacks the ambition to be any real threat.

Either way, on this rainy afternoon Dorian is happily sequestered on a low table with inks, paints and pencils all spread out around him, an equally industrious counterpoint to the Magister’s only daughter, Aeliana, her papers spanning the other side.

He wonders, later, if there’d been any discussion of an arrangement between them, any truth to his mother’s occasional claim that House Merula was hoping for a match. Either yes or no, it wouldn’t have mattered for all sorts of reasons, the least of which is Dorian himself.

In less than a year, the demands of title and country will see their Houses set at opposite ends of the Imperium, and they will soon lose touch. Much later, he would learn that Aeliana had suffered the cruelest of fates - no magic at all, one of those misfortunes that happened now and then to even to the most pure-blood families.

When he hears of it, Dorian feels quite sorry for her. 

Years after, he’ll wonder if Aeliana felt she got the better deal.

In this moment, though, they are still only children, raw potential waiting to be set to purpose. Aeliana practices her penmanship, careful tangles of nearly-identical letters marching across the page. Dorian’s own contribution to the moment is slightly less academic - a drawing of a whole - flock? flight? pride? - of gryphons attacking what could charitably be called a dragon. It isn’t quite epic enough, so after a moment he adds a few more gryphons descending upon a horde of darkspawn. It might help if he had any idea what a horde of darkspawn looked like, but ‘artistic license’ sounds like a good defense.

When he is a proper mage, Dorian will make his first order of business bringing back the gryphons... because gryphons. Obviously. 

A gift to the world, not just for the Wardens but for everyone. He’s not sure how long it will take - surely not long, once he has a proper place to study and access to the right texts, and his father says he can achieve whatever he wants, as long as he has the will to do it. He is the scion of House Pavus - nothing is beyond him.

So Dorian will keep a pair of them in a tower of his own, and fly them everywhere, though he hasn’t _quite_ decided on their names. ‘Death from Above’ may not set the proper tone.

At her own table, higher and tilted and covered with layers of the thinnest parchment, Aeliana’s mother lets out a slow breath, focused on keeping her hand steady as she sweeps a wide arc across the page. She is an architect, and though the buildings in the Imperium’s cities are old and grand and dwarf-built is made to last, time yet conquers all. The structures that do succumb are usually replaced with perfect copies, with the real work in trying to fit in all the concessions to modern needs, and extra care taken for whatever magics may lie in adjacent stones. 

It’s not true that people are entombed in the foundations of the city’s buildings - not anymore, at least. It was all rubbish to begin with, Aeliana’s mother says, mostly superstition and corner-cutting in place of decent magic and nothing that isn’t easily surpassed by a bit of proper calculation. Better than having demons creeping into the wine cellars, at any rate. 

She’s good at her work. Magisters are always altering and adding on to their estates outside of the cities, and there seems a steady stream of projects both civil and private that pass by her table. Dorian thinks it all quite interesting, though his Mother says it has a bit of a lowborn whiff about it all, and that she’s constantly surrounded by lesser mages - Laetans, even Soporati workmen. The wife of a Magister ought to have _some_ standards, surely.

He likes her books. Aeliana’s mother may keep her designs to the classical, preferred style but she has an entire library of books of all kinds, some nearly as tall as Dorian himself. Pages and pages of illustrations of art and buildings from not just Tevinter’s long history but far beyond the borders of the Imperium. Maps of the layout of the Orlesian capital at Val Royeaux, and repair manifests from the Gray Warden citadel at Weisshaupt, and even a few sketched details from the old, old ruins of Seheron. If Dorian were not who he is, he’d be a little worried over how much he had to learn about the world.

The sound of footsteps down the hall has them all looking up the moment Magister Merula steps into the room, windblown and damp - there are spells to avoid such disarray, though it seems he was in too much of a hurry this evening to bother. At her table, Aeliana’s mother does not look up from her careful illustration.

“I thought you wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow.”

“There was an unexpected reprieve. The assembly ended… rather sooner than anticipated.”

Which means a Magister - or several - got themselves killed, likely for doing something stupid, trying to kill someone else, or trying to kill someone else stupidly. Dorian is already old enough to know what those sorts of pauses mean, the deliberate, polite turns of phrase, though it still makes the adults happier if he pretends not to.

“You should change. Take off that cloak, at least. You’re dripping everywhere.”

A servant steps quietly in to help the Magister out of his dark outer robe, while another quickly attends to the puddles he has left in his wake. 

Magister Merula has servants, not slaves, though this is another detail Dorian won’t stop to reconsider until two decades or so later and half a world away. He had made them all Liberati soon after becoming a Magister, which his father said was a foolish way to start off, encouraging sloppy work with no accountability, but it seemed a halfhearted sort of critique, as if he thought he ought to say it more than he actually cared. 

In the years to come, Dorian will wonder how much his father actually cared about quite a few things.

“Keep away.” Merula’s wife says, waving a hand before he can take more than a single step toward her. “You’re still damp. I won’t risk you ruining all my work.”

The Magister sighs heavily. “Shunned from hearth and home? How cruel! But certainly my doting child has prepared a joyous welcome for her _paterfamilias_?”

Aeliana’s glare is the mirror of her mother’s, gathering her own work close. The Magister laughs, feigning a stagger as if struck by a mortal blow.

“How am I to endure? Where are my allies? What say you, young Pavus? Surely you’ll take pity on me?”

Dorian proudly holds up his epic battle scene. If it gets damaged, he’ll simply have to draw another. Maybe with two dragons this time.

“Is that an eyeball in its claws?”

“On fire.” Artistic license.

“Gruesome. Good man.” Merula grins. “Your father will be proud. Here, a token of my patronage.”

Dorian drops the paper just in time to catch the orange, which also draws Aeliana’s eye, and her father chuckles.

“Ah, _now_ I have your attention. What a surprise.”

She runs to her father for a souvenir of her own, a chain of tiny, dark opals and bright pearls that winks and glows where it catches the light. At the table, her mother smiles in approval, amusement soft in her eyes as her husband gives her a hopeful look.

“I am not so easily bribed, husband.”

Dorian's hand hovers above the page, dripping a few tears of vermillion that soak into the thirsty parchment, but he barely notices. His mother has never smirked at his father so, all playfulness. Happy to have him home. His father never looked back, with a smile barely hidden. As if there is a whole conversation hovering silent in the air between them, charging the whole room with warmth and light.

“Indeed.” The Magister moves to a sideboard, where a glass of wine waits. “You’re still working on that _aedicula_? I thought they said it would be acceptable as it was.”

Aeliana’s mother makes a sound, as if the word is pure insult. “ _Acceptable_ , perhaps. As it is intended to outlast me by several centuries, I’d prefer to do it _right_.”

“Well, I hope you might be able to set aside some time for a new bit of work.” The Magister sets a document down, a raised gold seal prominently displayed. It doesn’t mean anything to Dorian, but Aeliana’s mother gasps, nearly dropping her pen. “It seemed they might wish to renovate the main pavilion, and I can’t guarantee anything, but I did my best to put your name forth.”

Her wide eyes flick from the paper to her husband and back again.

“I thought that Magister Vinicius had already…”

“Oh, yes he made a _very_ good case for why he ought to be able to buy up the rest of the North Quarter for his own private concerns, but as I explained, there were several buildings of great historic worth within the bounds of Vinicius’s appetites, as well as a public garden that had long provided great enjoyment for the people. I also pointed out that any significant structures built in that area would likely spoil the view from the Archon’s own windows. Happily, he agreed that it would be no great loss for a Magister who already had so much to his name, and a significant benefit for the city. A matter of eminent domain.” He smirks proudly. “Which I believe means permanent protection for the gardens, the grounds, and a little plaza where a very fine girl once agreed to be my w-“

He’s cut off, because she has pushed away from the table, scattering pens and brushes as she leaps into his arms. Dorian is glad they’re paying him no attention, he couldn’t stop staring if he wanted to. 

It’s like trying to decipher some impossibly foreign language, as the Magister lifts his wife up, spinning her around, and they’re both laughing. He has never seen… his own parents rarely touch, let alone… and Dorian looks over, but Aeliana has barely noticed the scene unfolding in front of her, still concentrating on her work. As if nothing about this moment is exceptional at all.

“Not _easily_ bribed, and yet I persevere.” Magister Merula holds her close, and they simply… look at each other for a long moment, before she draws him into a kiss. Neither of them have stopped smiling. Perfectly content in each others company. Oh, Dorian knows this all must be unseemly - the proper words are ‘reserved’ and ‘dignified ’ - but that implies there is any real feeling to be held back. He didn’t know. He didn’t know it could be like this. His own home suddenly seems as bloodless as a gutted fish, a portrait painted in ash.

Imagine, if there were someone out there to look at him like that. If he could have this moment for his own, to live again and again. Dorian’s never wanted anything so badly in his life. 

“Vinicius will hardly be pleased.”

“It may make him somewhat interesting, at least for a while.” The Magister calls to a servant, “Tila, if you would look after the children, I believe I shall take my wife’s advice, and get out of these wet clothes.”

Dorian watches them disappear down the hall, arm in arm, her head on his shoulder, still speaking to each other in soft, warm tones. It will stay with him for hours afterward, when his parents have returned and he is home again, tucked away in his own room and watching the moon through the window, an etched stone disk against the dark. Unable to sleep, still with no idea exactly what he’d seen or what it meant. 

He knows better than to ask, even if he had the words.

—————————————

“… Dorian?”

He takes a somewhat ragged breath, the air smelling like warmth and dust and Inquisitor. Hands are pinning his wrists loosely to the wall, at least until Thierry lets go, and smiles, breathing a little hard himself. 

“Hey, there…” He tips his head, running the back of a knuckle along the curve of Dorian’s jaw. Studying him like some rare, discovered tome. “Where’d you go?” 

“Hm? No, I was just…”

Daydreaming. It’s been getting worse at a rather catastrophic rate. At least it seems the rumors are still at a fairly low simmer, even though a day hasn’t passed before he finds himself with the Inquisitor in a shadowed bit of grass behind the tavern, or catching a quick kiss on an empty staircase as Thierry goes to meet with Leliana. Or now, in a dusty ruin of a room on the outer wall that he’d been asked to help ‘survey.’ 

Dorian Pavus, attempting to keep a low profile. Speaking of signs of the apocalypse.

“I just… I knew someone who would have loved all this.”

After Aeliana had failed to show any talent, Merula had quietly stepped down, retired early to some peaceful, unimportant bit of countryside. Dorian wonders if his wife had turned to teaching, or if some busy courier had ensured a comfortable retirement hauling designs back and forth to the city. He wonders what she would have thought of Skyhold. Or of him, now. They’d never known how one simple moment in their lives had shaken up his entire world. As in magic, so in life - once he’d realized a thing could be done, that a life could be lived, nothing less would satisfy.

Vinicius never did get that garden back, either.

“So, what do you think? Is it worth even considering? A fancy new mage tower?”

One of the Inquisitor’s pet projects, what Dorian thinks he distracts himself with, little bits of concrete happiness amidst so much daunting uncertainty. 

He wants a dueling arena as well - a proper one, something permanent, and they’ve traveled to what he thinks is a perfect spot, very near to Skyhold. A short walk through a narrow canyon that opened to a wide plain, with a stunning view of the mountains beyond, distant waterfalls spilling snow-colored light across spans of gray stone.

Of course they’d taken the time to lay down guidelines, and while they were making sure the space would be generous enough it seemed only sensible to take a few practice shots, a bit of a warm-up that had quickly turned into a rematch. Maker, but his southern brute loves to fight. It didn’t take long before Thierry’s sleeves were singed to the elbow and the focus stone threatened to rattle loose in Dorian’s staff with every landed blow, but they’d only stopped when the echoes reached them through the gap, Inquisition scouts out searching for their errant leader.

Probably a good thing they’d been interrupted. A few spells and a bit of sweat and Dorian tends to forget the value of playing coy. He’d been sure the Inquisitor would resent him for it, his supposedly wanton Tevinter suddenly prim and proper as a Chantry sister, but Thierry hasn’t pushed things, seemingly content to let Dorian set the pace.

As if they have the time for any proper degeneracy, with the Inquisitor rarely in the same place for two moments together. Even Dorian isn’t _that_ fast-

Except for the clever little spell he’s been teasing out of time. The combat applications are rather obvious, but in theory, he - and anything he feels like doing, and anyone he feels like doing it _to_ \- ought to be as fast or slow as he wants it to be.

Yes, he’ll just put a pin in that thought for later.

For the moment, Dorian leans back on his heels and examines the currently underwhelming space and its load-bearing cobwebs. “Well, I suppose with a bevy of wards, some new beams, a few tons of stone, a pallet of roofing tiles, a miracle… maybe a candlestick or two…”

Which gets him kissed again, as it ought. It’s been impossible to keep this from the more observant members of the Inquisition, though Dorian’s still not sure if Sera actually is aware of anything or just enjoys filling any conversation with lewd innuendo until it bursts. Varric must know, if only because the dwarf lives for this sort of thing, the source of half his income and most of his amusement. Dorian may keep the Seeker as his high-water mark. Once Cassandra notices, all bets are off.

And, of course, there’s Mother Giselle. The Dorian of years past wants to smirk at her every time they pass in the hall, slip his arm through Thierry’s when only she’s there to see it. Of course, this Dorian was also the one who spent as much time skirting the disastrous consequences of his preening self-congratulation as reaping any rewards.

Now, he mostly just wants to ask what she hopes to achieve, if she and those she speaks for really, truly believe he’s out to destroy the Inquisition. He doubts it - more likely she thinks him only a callous rake and heartless sybarite. Dorian wants to tell her not to worry. Despite all apparent evidence, he’s rather adept at the supporting role. None of this is about _him_ , not truly. It’s about the Inquisitor, and Dorian is just as committed as the rest of them as making sure he succeeds in saving the world, and in staying in one piece long enough to do it. The dice rolled in Dorian’s favor this time, and so his part in this comes with some lovely side benefits, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the end game.

_The Herald won’t come to you for help, dear lady, because you need him to be the Herald._

A simple matter of chance, of convenience, the stars all lining up to have him be the one that Thierry turns to, and whatever Mother Giselle’s fretting, Dorian understands what that entails. It means he shoulders whatever he can of that burden, he watches the Inquisitor’s back and - when the time comes, when Thierry needs him to - he steps away. He lets go. 

The question of course, of what Dorian will do with himself afterward… but again, this isn’t about him.

“Well,” Thierry says, “maybe we’ll trip over a quarry or two in between Rifts.”

“Ah, is it finally time for your thrilling debut?”

Thierry rolls his eyes. “Behold Thedas, your Inquisitor. The Man Who Didn’t Blow Up. Again. Durability is the Maker’s greatest blessing.”

Nearing the hour of Skyhold’s official grand opening, the Inquisition making its first big move forward since Corypheus’ attack. Most of the walls have even returned to being walls. At least in the more well-traveled sections. Of course, they’ve already had visitors, and it’s telling that despite what happened to Haven, there are still many who consider Skyhold safer than the places they’ve fled.

Cullen’s been training his forces hard as ever, and the Nightingale’s busy at all hours, gathering reports on where to go and what to do, while Josephine takes offers of allegiance that are mostly thinly-veiled requests for aid. Word from Orlais suggest the Empress might not survive long enough to reach her assassination, and there’s still no solid word on that troublesome demon army. At least there are plenty of Venatori to murder, whatever else happens.

“I’ve seen worse claims to power. Do I consider this my call to arms?” 

Dorian doesn’t let it sound hopeful, that he cares much one way or the other. He certainly doesn’t act as if it might not be a given. The obvious thought that the Inquisition vanguard will not improve with an Altus at the fore.

“Consider it an open invitation. Of course, there are countless tasks as valuable for you here in Skyhold that involve less risk of camping _or_ decapitation.”

“Obviously you haven’t been in the library lately. It seems our elf is in a bit of a snit.”

“Stop pestering Solas.”

“Taking his side? You wound me!” Dorian sniffs. “Oh all right, I may have pilfered a tome or two from his pile. A few herbs. Maybe some wine.” He makes a face at the Inquisitor’s nonplussed expression. “No apostate can possibly appreciate a 4:90 Black. If he wanted to keep it that badly, he should have known enough to ward the bottle.”

“So, you’ll be joining us in the field, then?”

“I could be persuaded. Perhaps a few compliments on my peerless magical skills?”

Dorian keeps forgetting not to do this, that he shouldn’t bring attention back to the… situation between them. _Venhedis_ , he should just have slept with the man and been done with it, back when it didn’t matter. He doesn't know what to do when the Inquisitor looks at him like that, and it happens far more often than it should, Whatever’s in that gaze, Dorian can’t measure up to it, and doesn’t know how to give it back. It makes him want, when he damn well knows better.

It makes him want, when he still doesn’t have the words.

“No one I’d rather be stranded in time with, then or now.” Thierry says. “I meant that. I still do. It’s going to be dangerous, probably even more than we expect, but I can’t say I don’t like to watch you in action, _and_ you’re flashy enough to keep most of the fire off of me.”

Dorian’s eyes narrow.

“Am I an asset or a fishing lure?”

The Inquisitor pauses. A moment passes. And another. Dorian sighs, but Thierry holds up a hand.

“No, hold on, I’m still trying to decide.”

He flicks a bit of lightning back, listening to the Inquisitor yelp and laugh. _Maker_ , but he adores this idiot. Too much. Far too much. 

“How much do you think it would cost to have Iron Bull carry a palanquin?”

“Not nearly as much as it will to keep him from feeding it to you.”

“Pity,” Dorian sighs, “I do suppose I’m willing to join you in stopping and or wreaking havoc. Grudgingly, mind you. Maybe I’ll blow a few new holes in Orlais, as a matter of civic pride.” 

Thierry grins. “The Inquisition thanks you for your service.”

“Yes, I imagine it will.” He smirks. “So, this was a purely professional meeting?”

“Absolutely.” Thierry says, with a hand firmly on Dorian’s ass.

“Good.” He’s already grown quite fond of letting his arms slide low, curling his fingers in the curve of the Inquisitor’s back. “Just as long as we keep these boundaries clear.”

“Clear as Serault glass.” Thierry murmurs, and leans in.

===================

1\. It’s really just going to be making out and attempts at wit for a billion chapters. Sorry they don’t let you take those kudos back.

2\. Time distortion magic in the bedroom. Magic serving man!


	12. Chapter 12

“‘The Exalted Plains,’ is it? Downright picturesque. A lovely example of the Orlesian countryside. I wonder when the screaming will start.”

“Dorian-”

The screaming starts.

Thierry gives him a look, and he shrugs back, and they’re off.

——————

An argument could be made that the Inquisition has better things to do than traipse about the countryside attempting to talk down Orlais from an ill-timed bar brawl with itself. 

“I’m just saying we might consider, at some point, a journey to distant lands not composed of equal parts mud and burning.”

Iron Bull mutters something that ends in ‘ _Fallow fucking Mire._ ’ 

Sera throws a rock.

Dorian didn’t exactly have a particularly high opinion of Orlais before they’d arrived - an entire country late to the party and still pretending they’re at the peak of fashion. History and manners and legacies all patched together from what the ancient Imperium left behind. Nothing they’ve accomplished in the interim that his own people hadn’t already shown to the world - infinitely grander if with three or four times the body count.

Although they are certainly doing their best to prove that it doesn’t take magic to wreak havoc on a truly masterful scale. It’s been miles of torn-up earth and torn-down buildings, the aftermath of two armies who’ve - for the moment - quit the field. Or what’s left of the field. Hardly a surprise there have been deserters, these self-appointed ‘Freemen of the Dales’ who’d welcomed them with drawn swords and fierce oaths against the Inquisition. Rather the compliment, considering they haven’t actually _done_ anything yet.

“… as Orlais’ true defenders, you know what to do.” Dorian folds the note back up, glancing at the bodies strewn around them. “‘Catch fire and die,’ apparently.”

Thierry sighs. “I don’t suppose it matters that we’re not here to stake a claim? As if I want to touch this pile of crazy with a ten-foot staff. If we just could talk to them… maybe we don’t have to fight.”

The sort of thing that might sound insufferably naive, if the Inquisitor weren’t saying it while prying his staff blade out from between plates of mismatched armor, some attempt at a warrior who thought he could close faster than a mage could cast. He had, actually - it just hadn’t done him any good against a mage lacking all qualms about close-quarters combat. 

“It’s anarchy here, boss.” Iron Bull rumbles thoughtfully, turning out a bag one of the other men had been carrying - a few coins, but rings too, along with medals and other marks of rank. Trophies from his victims. Well, _that’s_ a good sign. “Whatever it is they _say_ they want, the best thing we can do is help bring back order, as soon as we can.”

The Inquisitor nods, but it’s clear he still doesn’t like it - which is why it’s an improvement when they’re soon up to their stave-tips in spirit-possessed corpses and twisted Arcane Horrors instead. No moral quandaries about dispatching the already dead, and a dozen or so years of advanced necromancy studies have left Dorian mostly inured to the smell. It isn’t that bad, as these things go, most of the bodies not well served by the weather or the birds, just enough left beneath the armor to tie them together and keep them moving but not really the sort of thing to suggest ‘person’ anymore. 

Demons. Magic barriers. Increasingly ambitious cadavers. Which means these Freemen have become just another pawn in the schemes of the Venatori. How marvelous.

His contacts in Tevinter are few but industrious, and the Nightingale is willing to confirm certain facts whenever it might lead to more dead Venatori - so he’s aware there’s one of his countrymen in this area, likely the local ringleader for this group of carefully cultivated rebels. Dorian doesn’t know of the man by more than reputation - powerful, which means he’ll be quite useful as one more broken link in Corypheus’ chain of command.

Most importantly, he’s one of those bastards who’d gone and twisted Alexius’ grief to its worst possible ends. As the only one left to pay back that insult, Dorian intends to do so with particular satisfaction. He's always savored having a score to settle. Which makes all this fighting a rather useful warm-up.

“Oi, watch it!” Sera says, dodging a bit of airborne spinal column as Dorian follows up Thierry’s frozen blast with a fireball of his own, a reliable if somewhat messy method of victory.

Flying organs aside, clearing the ramparts is mostly methodical, pushing forward slowly and carefully through the narrow wooden spaces, rushing the enemy often before it can even find its feet, while taking care to make sure nothing pops up behind them. 

On the journey in, Iron Bull had taught them a few basic hand signals for working silently - Sera all-too quick to add a few of her own lewd favorites - and so other than the sound of spells landing or axes splitting bone it’s eerily quiet as they move through the ramparts, making good time. A rather pointed example of the value of magic, Dorian thinks, and the cost of trying to do without.

And yes, it’s been easy as breathing to match his strengths to the Inquisitor’s in battle, and with every fight it feels a little more like they’ve been doing this for years, for all their lives. Slipping into a natural rhythm - Dorian is faster so he strikes first, and magic will always catch the attention of anything that ought to be dead, so he might as well take the initiative, trying to get a second shot off purely as a personal challenge before the Inquisitor can pull a barrier and then it’s just a matter of keeping an eye on Bull and taking down any archers first, before mopping up whatever remains. Thankfully a lurching charge of dead men is more unnerving than nimble, especially when there’s plenty of ice and fire to meet them halfway.

“Leave it out!” Sera howls from somewhere behind him. “I got that one in my _hair_!”

A chuckle from Thierry, one of the first since they’d started seeing burned-out villages on the horizon, since he’s had to step out here and play the Inquisitor in full. 

He _likes_ all this - the traveling, the adventure - more than he tries to let on, more than he thinks he ought to. Dorian can sympathize - there’s nothing good about toppled carts and bodies strewn across fields and ditches, the smoldering remains of people’s lives - but this is still _Dirthavaren_ they’re wandering through. A place he’d certainly never thought he might see with his own eyes, lingering remnants of a lost nation rising majestically above the carnage and Dorian certainly wouldn’t mind a closer look. Thierry must feel the same, with how he pauses in any quiet moment, a soft look of wonder on his face at every stone arch or carving or mural that’s more than a hint of blank stone. Imagining how it must have been.

One more daydream to add to the pile, a list of all the places Dorian’s gone, all the mysterious relics of history the Inquisitor will almost certainly never get the chance to see. One more reason he ought to do what can’t be done, to make his home a place Thierry might want to visit. 

By the end of the first day, the Western Ramparts are accounted for and Inquisition banners flutter over Victory Rise. No sign of any Venatori, but there’s still plenty of ground to cover and perhaps now they’ve made enough noise to be noticed. The few soldiers they have met are all Gaspard’s men, grateful for the assistance if with the occasional side-glance at the Inquisitor in a way that has Dorian wanting to topple them off the nearest parapet. So suspicious and afraid and absolutely ignorant of the same magic that had just saved their lives. Yes, magic is dangerous, but Dorian would bet the stave in his hand and the clothes off his back and the naked march back to Skyhold that these idiots couldn’t actually explain _why_. Even in small words.

“Whose side does the Herald stand with, ser?” One of the Orlesian soldiers asks nervously. 

“The Inquisition doesn’t presume to tell the Empire what it ought to do.” Thierry replies. “We’re only here for the demons and the Venatori.”

So that everyone can get back to killing each other in peace. 

—————————————————————————

“It’s like… kind of a cape, I suppose?” Thierry says. “Except, you know, capes usually serve a purpose. They can’t _all_ dress like that, can they? They’d run out of fabric.”

“You should see it in the rainy season.” Iron Bull replies. “All those layers in the damp? We can hunt them by the smell.”

As if the Qunari in full sun is a walking rosebush.

It’s rather impossible to maintain neutrality while accepting the offer of safe haven with the Grand Duke’s forces. So they’ve set up in a quiet spot near the river, guarded by a half-fallen wall, with a good line of sight toward anything that might be a danger, and sentries posted and ready well before the sun is past the horizon. Which means Dorian can continue flipping through his book instead of acknowledging the running commentary on his clearly impeccable fashion sense.

“So what’s that bit called?”

“A pallium. Sort of.”

“What’s it do?”

“You got me, boss.”

Heathens. Absolute heathens, the lot of them.

“All right, so it’s kind of a… great coat with a capelet sort of - I’m still not quite seeing how the top part fits together.” Thierry says, head tilted. “Oh, no, wait, he’s belted it. The pauldron… I suppose he’s belted that too, hasn’t he? I can’t quite tell what all those _other_ belts are for.”

“Use your imagination.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow at that because _really_?

“It’d be a great way to tie up a hammock, for starters. Who knows, he’s probably got one of those in there, too.” Iron Bull says, with a blithe, innocent and utterly unconvincing smile. Smug. Whatever the great oaf’s name is back home, it really ought to be ‘smug.’ Dorian isn’t even going to comment on the Inquisitor throwing stones, Thierry being chased down by the Ambassador so often for one sartorial mishap or another that he practically has to line up for inspection before she’ll let him out in public.

“A lot of collars. All the collars. Is it for structural support?” Thierry says. “I mean, I suppose it would help if you needed spare material for bandages or… a boat sail. Maybe it’s a logic puzzle - how many outfits can one man wear at a time and _still_ have bits missing?”

As if the Inquisitor isn’t absolutely fascinated with nothing more than a single bared shoulder, never missing an opportunity to let his lips linger there, or slipping a hand underneath Dorian’s cloak just long enough to find skin. An infatuation that ought to be to his advantage, if Dorian didn’t lean into each of those touches like a flower to the damned sun.

“Yes, well, it seems you’ve managed to patch things up with the king of Ferelden, so I imagine I’ll be adding whole dead animals and dog hair to my ensemble any day now.” Dorian says. “I can start a new trend - clothes that aren’t quite done expiring yet. Maybe the Commander could share some tips.”

“You did all that yourself, didn’t you?” Thierry says, gesturing at Dorian’s inarguably superlative attire. Mockery, from a man who can look at _plaideweave_ without flinching. “It’s all right, you can tell us. We’re all friends here.”

“I’m not.” Sera says, fiddling with her arrows. “Well, wait. I am, but not… sod it, nevermind. He does look a right tit, though, if we’re having a vote.”

Dorian lets out the pained sigh of a man forced to deal with small children of questionable faculties. “Of course not. I had someone very expensive do it for me. The way all things should be done.”

A somewhat ludicrous portion of his traveling budget had been laid out before he’d even stepped over the border. At the time it had seemed decent insurance toward the increasing likelihood of going out in style. A post-mortem charitable donation to scavengers in desperate need of a new look.

“Still…” Iron Bull muses, “could be fun trying to get him out of it. Right, boss?”

The first that anyone’s made mention of their little intrigue. Of course it would have to be Bull - and Dorian continues to read without a care in the world, ignoring that small, hard knot of - the Inquisitor could just as easily deny it all. Despite everything he’s said or implied while they’re alone - Maker knows that means nothing. Iron Bull wouldn’t buy it, of course, but that wouldn’t be the point. The point is about not expecting more than he ought and before you take this so damned personally, Dorian, look at what’s all around you - remember, _this_ is the world he’s trying to change. A world where mages are often as not killed on sight and a Tevinter - _any_ Tevinter - is about the last person - 

“ _Oh_ , wait, I get it now. You might be right.” Thierry says. “It’s sort of like a chastity belt? Victor? Spoils. Or I lose a hand trying.”

The knot unravels itself, and not for the first time. If he looks up, the Inquisitor will be watching, probably grinning in an deliberately unsubtle manner. As if it costs him nothing. Dorian keeps his eyes to the page.

“Harding’s back.” Bull says, the scout’s light footsteps picking up the path toward them. “Guess that means it’s time for dinner.”

“Charred pack rations on a stick.” Dorian mutters. “Oh, how the heart does soar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. A few Exalted Plains chapters incoming. I was fond of that area.


	13. Chapter 13

“Hey. Hey, Dorian. Look.”

He wakes. Standing. In the Fade. 

Hm.

Dorian quickly shuffles through recent memory - fighting, more fighting, horrible food, and then the lovely Harding with a few even lovelier tips on how to avoid putting his tent down on every single tree root and jagged stone in Orlais. After that, only the sounds of a camp settling in for the night, the pop and crack of a dwindling fire and all his and Thierry’s wards settled where they ought to be. Wind through the branches. The occasional frog.

No surprise demons. No Venatori attacks. So how is he in the Fade? The Veil is always thinner on battlefields, but that alone shouldn’t be near enough to-

The ridge he’s staring at is at least familiar, one the Inquisitor had spent a good half hour mountain-goating across, trying to wrest another shard from the rocks, while Dorian had pondered traps to set for the Venatori from exceedingly bloody to incredibly humiliating-yet-still-bloody. It’s a good vantage point in the real world and… in the Fade as well, it seems, because there’s the Inquisitor, perched at the top and looking away, gazing out over the plains.

Dorian’s had enough experience in the Fade to get through the basics - how to know when he’s there, how to tell another dreamer from a demon, and after a somewhat… tempestuous youth where he cheerfully attracted anything with claws and ambition for a league in all directions, Dorian can even keep himself quiet and relatively unnoticed.

Which is good, Dorian realizes as he reaches the summit, because it seems he’s looking over the slightly pre-Exalted plains. The last great stand of the Dales, armies clashing in a ferocious, never-ending roar, elves and humans, banners and burning boats like unstrung beads drifting here and there along the river.

Except that Dorian’s paid enough attention to history to assume the Grand Duke and the Empress probably hadn’t been flying colors at this particular engagement.

It’s a mash of echoes, then. The recent fight seeping into the past and the two battles, for the moment, oddly intermingled. Exactly the sort of thing that makes him look askance at Solas’ singular respect for the Fade. Yes, Dorian’s read Callistus - recited the ‘best of’ by heart back in the classroom, gave him due credit in papers - but he’s not sure he agrees with the man’s ultimate verdict. What he’s looking at seems nothing more than a child’s wobbly drawing of the past. Interesting, perhaps, from a purely academic standpoint but a bit too subjective for his tastes.

“I’ll grant them full marks for enthusiasm,” he says, “if slightly less for historical accuracy.”

“I might have seen Lindiranae down there a second ago, with her giant fuckoff let’s-kill-all-the-humans sword.” Thierry murmurs back. “Shems? Kill-all-the-shems sword.”

Obviously not the safest place, but at the moment there seems at least a decent gap between them and the shifting ranks of half-solid spirits, too intent on their own reenactments to notice the dreamers in their midst.

Rather a miracle, given what the Inquisitor’s decided to dress himself in for this little jaunt.

“So, I assume those are the fabled Ostwick Circle robes?”

Thierry spreads his arms wide, looking down at himself with a startled half-laugh.

“How did I… yes? Well, more or less.”

“Less. Unequivocally less. I’m revoking your right to talk to me about what a shirt should be.” It's all somewhat the color of a poorly kept tavern floor and there's something around his waist with ambitions toward belthood and… oh, fur-trimmed shoulders! Of course. “Maker, maybe we _do_ need to conquer you people again. At least impart a few vital lessons on hemlines.” 

Dorian waves a hand, the slightest bit of will behind it - and immediately wishes he hadn’t. 

It’s quite unnerving, how out of place the Herald _doesn’t_ look in Tevinter robes, deep black leaching the color out of everything but his eyes, the severe cut not unflattering but rendering him… dangerous. Intimidating. More of an icon, less of a man, icy and distant and prepared to inflict countless horrors for all sorts of perfectly logical reasons. 

He erases the image with a flick of his fingers, returning the Inquisitor to his regular armor before the other man even notices, and then he’s just Thierry again, studying the scene before them with wary curiosity.

“So…” Dorian says. “The Fade seems a bit more orange than usual, wouldn’t you say?”

“I think I dragged you in here.” Thierry winces, lifting his marked hand slightly, answering the question Dorian had half worked out already. “Sorry.”

Somniari. The Inquisitor’s a damned _Somniari_ now, if of the slipshod, patchwork variety. The part of Dorian that wants to do unspeakable things to the Inquisitor is once again in danger of losing to the part that wants to shake him until the next interesting thing pops out.

“You know, you make it increasingly difficult to pretend I have a moral code.” He says. “Does this happen often?”

“No.” The Inquisitor keeps his eyes to the field, fascinated. “Well, once before, just after we’d arrived in Skyhold. Solas was there. I think I might have almost nearly impressed him.”

Certainly not the sort of thing the elf could have _mentioned_ to anyone, say another mage who might understand the potential dangers of a relative amateur being catapulted without warning into the deep end of the Fade? Now there’s a conversation to look forward to upon their return.

“He says the Anchor is still… changing. Adapting, maybe. Or I’m adapting to it. I can feel it, sometimes.” Thierry frowns slightly, rubbing his fingers across the barest thread of green. It’s followed him here, of course, into the Fade. Maker only knows what _that’s_ about.

“Does it hurt?”

“Barely at all now, even at the Rifts. If anything it feels… more a part of me? Whatever that means.”

He’s worried, and rightly so. It’s certainly proved its worth, but remains an unknown power forged by the hand of the enemy, a weapon forced on him that he can’t put down. 

“You don’t have much experience with this sort of thing, do you? The Fade.”

“Only my Harrowing.” Thierry shrugs.

“Trussed up, blindfolded, and tossed through the Veil? Sloppy.” Dorian tsks, shaking his head. Usually this would be where the Inquisitor defends his Circle - no, it wasn’t that bad, the Templars had good reasons, it’s a flawed system, not a broken one - but he doesn’t, not this time. He doesn’t say anything at all.

A line of dark shapes rises up at the far bank of the river - more soldiers making their way across, great splashes in the water as a few of the elven catapults are turned to drive them back. The occasional splintering of wood and distant, echoing cry of soon-to-be drowning men each time a boat goes down. 

He wonders if Cole’s ever taken part in one of these, if he’d know if the battles ever play out differently, or who picks what side. If they draw straws or take turns, for who gets the most important roles. Except spirits care for feelings, not titles, so by their reckoning every life on that battlefield is the equal of every other. 

What must they make of it all? The Imperium's grand conquest. The endless struggle of Seheron. The Chantry fighting the Dalish. Orlesians battling Fereldens. The Empire laying waste to itself. He’d say it couldn’t make sense outside of the context, but Dorian isn’t entirely sure the context always helps. 

“So… they don’t send you into the Fade to test you?”

“Nothing like what you southern mages get up to, if that’s what you mean.” Dorian says. “Any mage who wants to work as such has to prove themselves beyond the Veil, but I imagine it’s as much a way to sell the lyrium as to make any greater point.” 

Thinking about it now, it seems likely quite a few Laetans have to sell _themselves_ as well, just to afford the fees. A rather easy way to keep any upstarts well under the thumb of their betters, all in the interest of common sense and security, of course. All so tidy that it makes him want to gag. 

“It’s not quite the dreaded ritual as it is… hunting for sport.”

“You weren’t afraid at all, were you?”

“Afraid I wouldn’t find anything powerful enough to be worth killing.” 

He plays it for laughs, when the Inquisitor rolls his eyes, but it’s not so far off from the truth. 

Life in the upper echelons of Tevinter is never less than treacherous, rarely a place to trust more than himself. The difference between a day in or out of the Fade is mostly a matter of what color the sky is when he’s likely to be murdered. A thousand ways to die in the Imperium, and losing face, looking weak, even the suggestion of failure can be as bad if not worse than any mortal blow. Dorian had actually pressed the issue, jumped in nearly a full year before he should have, competing with an upperclassman who’d been talking up his own recent successes beyond the Veil. Looking back, he can't be sure whether his teachers were convinced of his aptitude or aware that nothing short of being torn in two would stop him from pestering them.

“You said it was a Desire demon.” 

“Are you still paying attention to what I say?” Dorian smirks. “Do try to avoid that in the future. It’s not going to do either of us any good. Yes, it was a Desire demon I found - or perhaps that found me. I’d been trying for Pride, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” The Inquisitor says, rolling his eyes again.

“I don’t know what your Harrowing demons are like, but in the Imperium’s Fade they can be… quite familiar with the rules. Occasionally, they’ve been even bound to service before. Any Magister could spot an abomination from a mile off, and they’re well aware of that. Not much fun to do all that work for only a sip of the real world. So on the whole they’re smart, and cautious, and enjoy cutting very careful bargains.”

“But you still spoke to it. Why bother?”

“Why not? Defeating demons is about more than just tossing spells about. It thought it was cleverer than me, and I certainly couldn’t let that stand. Besides, it had rather impeccable taste, and I felt at least a moment’s admiration was in order.”

“What did it look like?”

“Me.”

Thierry barely stifles his laugh, one hand clapped hard over his mouth. Dorian had laughed back then, too.

“I call bullshit.”

“Maker’s honest truth. I’ll swear on whatever relic you have at hand.”

Thankfully, his adjudicators hadn’t needed to do more than determine there was a powerful demon in the area and then watch him chase after it. Watching the actual fight wasn’t necessary - his survival would be proof enough that he’d won. 

It’s still true, though - a demon with his smile and his poise, a playful tip of the head as he’d offered up a glass of wine the color of a dragon’s fresh-cut heart. Smirking with the joy of a well-played hand, and when their fingers touched on the goblet Dorian had felt the thrill of it right to his core, the uncertainty of being hunter or prey. 

“… so, did you?” Thierry says, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

“Did I what?” As if Dorian doesn’t know what he’s asking. “Make out with myself? Of course not. What kind of an idiot would kiss a desire demon on their first trot through the Fade?”

“You so did.” It’s obvious the Inquisitor doesn’t know whether to be amazed by his audacity or stunned by his idiocy. “You _did_ , didn’t you?!”

“With tongue.”

If not the absolute stupidest thing he’d ever done, then certainly on the short list. It _was_ a very good kiss - of course it was - artful and professionally seductive and Dorian could practically taste his own heart beat, anticipation like a skin of pure electricity over his own. Waiting for the moment it would strike, ready to counterattack and prove himself once and for all.

“What happened?”

“Well, a bit of wine and some pithy observations - and then it tried to devour me, of course.” Dorian says flippantly. “Exactly what you’d expect from a demon. So I destroyed it, there was a party and I got a shiny new staff.”

The story he’s told in various incarnations for years afterward - skipping the part about who it chose to look like until he was trying to charm himself into the right bed. Only mentioning the kiss to those he really wanted to impress or scandalize, though most of them hadn’t believed him.

_Are you here to fight me, Dorian? Because that’s what you really want._

He never mentions the conversation. No one needs to know about that. How he didn’t truly feel in danger, wrenched suddenly off balance, until the sultry pout vanished, and the desire demon’s look was pure sympathy.

_You’re never going to feel this alive with any of them, you know. You’re so _bored_ , amatus. So lonely. I made you laugh. When’s the last time you laughed and meant it?_

A mistake, to think that desire demon’s most dangerous attraction is purely physical. Often the last mistake.

_You know what you are, gentle heart. We both know what that means. You ought to prepare yourself for what that means, while you still can. I can be a safe option for all your… indiscretions. Trust me, you’d hardly be the first. Bind me up, as you like. I don’t mind. I wouldn’t mind anything you wanted to do. Keep me tucked right next to your heart. I can be your secret weapon. You’ll need one eventually._

Except a desire demon was - in the end - still a known quantity, hardly invulnerable. An ‘advantage’ undone by the next Magister with a matched set.

Dorian still hates that, the part of him that considered it all from the practical standpoint instead of the simple fact that it was _wrong_ , that it was weak, an embarrassing crutch for those with no confidence in their own power.

_You_ don’t _have the power, though, do you? You already know that._ He’d slipped, the demon catching the corner of that thought. Dorian’s own proudest smirk reflected back at him. Did he really look _that_ insufferably smug? _Do you think your father hasn’t noticed? Ambition and impatience, substituting for that killer instinct. You’re not what you need to be. How long do you think you can make it on your own?_

He’d taken a step back, and raised his staff, and the demon sighed and stepped slowly out of his skin, the mirror illusion melting away.

 _Oh, dearest,_ the demon shook its head, polishing its claws lazily against one thigh as it moved forward, pretending it wasn’t about to lunge, _by the time they’re done with you, you’re going to wish it had been me._

All mind games, of course. Demons were made of the stuff. So he’d fought it and he’d taken it down and stepped from the Fade to all the expected congratulations and fine reports, to his father’s pride and the certainty that all would be well. It was not an insolvable problem, he could figure this out and even if he didn’t, he would face the consequences. Dorian would find a way through and it could never be as dire as-

It’s bad when demons lie. It’s so much worse when they don’t have to.

“Harding thinks the clan of Dalish here aren’t overtly hostile. I wonder if we’ll get to see them, if they’ll talk to us.” Thierry is all boyish excitement, not a drop of Inquisitorial dignity to be found. “Have you ever seen any?”

“Dalish?” Dorian shakes his head. “Only in stage plays. All fake. A bit like this, I suppose. ‘Historical reenactments’ of ancient glories of the Imperium that never actually happened that way. If they happened at all.”

Of course, even poorly-acted drama had its selling points. Dorian certainly hadn’t complained, licking his way down a sweat-slicked chest while an elven gladiator - hastily applied tattoos already smeared past recognition - made filthy suggestions in what even Dorian could tell was grammatically unlikely, if it had even been elvish at all. 

One of his father’s less considered decisions, that particular bastion of higher learning set right between two of the province’s largest coliseums. It hadn’t done much for that year’s academic standing or his discretionary funds, but worked wonders for his practical education.

On the Plains, the fight hasn’t slowed, though the carnage spilling out in front of them is still strangely bloodless - a few bodies remaining where they fell but others just evaporating away, spirits perhaps taking up some new position elsewhere in the fight, perhaps even changing sides. The elves have had control of the field all this time, but Dorian can see the lines start to crumble, the day beginning to turn.

Of course, they’d planned for that, and no matter how hard the Chantry brings its force to bear there is no sudden rupture, no surprise collapse. Just the steady dwindling of the Dalish, a war of attrition on all sides. The recent past seems little better, Gaspard and Celene’s forces hacking each other to bits, neither one gaining an inch for their effort.

It’s a bit difficult to pick out individuals from the fray, but Dorian catches sight of one or two, at least for a few moments. What might be one of the fabled Orlesian chevaliers, carving a path through a line of the Empress’ men, only to be piked from behind. A Dalish archer firing shot after shot into the crush of Chantry soldiers slowly boxing him in, and even with shields raised he still finds cracks, lethal mistakes in their guard until he’s out of arrows and left to draw a pair of knives and charge fearlessly to his end.

The edge of the very rampart they’d taken today wavers in and out of reality, and Dorian wonders if taking the next will be so easy. He wonders where the Venatori are lurking, if they’re planning a counterattack. Could the Inquisitor dispose of them here, if he knew where to find them in the Fade?

Dorian will never mention it, and hopefully the thought will never cross Thierry’s mind. Circumstances may make a weapon of the Inquisitor yet, chipping away a little at a time. there may be no other choice - but Dorian intends to fight against it every step of the way.

“Oh, _Maker_.” Thierry whispers. “Look at that.”

A cavalry line of gleaming white, elves on their halla, wolves at their side, diving into the fray. It’s absolutely stunning, the sort of thing that doesn’t seem like it ever could have been real, nobility and grandeur sharpened to the keenest edge by the knowledge they are not going to win. For their part, the Chantry’s men raise swords and shields high, ready to meet the charge.

“Imagine it,” Thierry says softly. “You’re Andraste, and you decide to put the boot in the Imperium or the Maker tells you to go and put the boot in so you do. You rally with the elves and you go out and you do it, for yourself and for them and a better world. A home. But time goes on and the world changes and there’s a new fight because there’s always a new fight. Elves and humans, and not on the same side anymore. Maybe it was inevitable, maybe there was no other way but when it all falls down this time, when they don’t just _win_ but they burn all the history and put the elves down and keep them there - they do it in your name, and sing your fucking Chant on the ashes.”

“Was that the Canticle of Shartan I heard in there? I thought we all agreed to hum that part.” One thing both Chantries have in common, how quickly they’d excised that inconvenient truth.

“Andraste would never have wanted this. Never. She would have fought her own army with everything she had. What a waste.”

“Three hundred years.” Dorian says. “I suppose that’s not nothing.”

A rather grim epitaph.

Gaspard’s troops are pushing the Empress’ men back toward the river, while further down the field the Chantry continues its slow, inexorable drive into the Dales, a dozen men or more lost for every foot gained. Dorian watches a Dalish mage go down, pierced by swords - and a vast swath of the battlefield falls with her, soldiers and horses screaming as they’re tossed into the air, disappearing into the darkness where the ground used to be.

A swordsman, impaled, lives just long enough to slit the throat of his attacker. One soldier uses the corpse of his ally as a human shield, catching arrow after arrow as he charges his enemies, while another sits still on the field, a body clutched fast in his arms. Dorian can’t tell which side they’re on, human or elven, present or past, before they disappear back in the crush. A thousand tiny tragedies. 

“You know, they would have called it an Exalted March, too. If the Conclave had failed less… extravagantly.” Thierry says. “Up to the night I left, we were all still making plans about what to do. Where to make choke points, try and hold them off. What to do if our Templars spooked and…” He breathes out, slowly. “Kirkwall in ruins on one side and it hadn’t been all that long since Starkhaven burned down, and there we were. Ostwick, right in the middle. Did you know our First Enchanter fucked off for parts unknown the first chance he had? Just… gone. Like he didn’t have to care. Like our lives didn’t - mage solidarity my _ass_.”

Dorian had laughed aloud, the first time he’d heard that particular sentiment, and it probably hadn’t been politic to do so in the face of the mage who had uttered it but _really_. If there’s one illusion that needs to die quicker than all the rest, it’s that mages are any kinder to each other than they are to the rest of the world.

“The Knight-Commander, all the Templars that stayed… they were good men, but what were they going to do if Starkhaven decided to send an army? What if the Chantry decided another Dairsmuid would be good for morale?” Thierry shakes his head. “Did you know some of those Templars showed up, at the Conclave? The bastards who’d done it, they… we all knew who they were. Word got around fast, so if it all went to shit - they’d damn well be the first to go, with spells out of every possible orifice.”

“An inspiring image, that.” Dorian says gently. The Inquisitor’s mouth is a thin, harsh line.

“Butchering children and calling it necessary and all this…” He gestures toward the raging battlefield, “… all of it the ‘Maker’s holy will’, and if they’d hit us, if they’d called for annulment at Ostwick they would have said that was righteous too.” A muscle works in his jaw, as if he’s considering his words very carefully. As if not saying them will ensure the worst never happens. “And now… now there’s Skyhold.”

“Considering the only Templars left who aren’t rock-gnawing lunatics wear Inquisition colors, I think you may have the upper hand.”

“For now.”

Dorian reaches out, takes his hand, and leans in against him, shoulder to shoulder. The Inquisitor presses back, though he keeps his gaze on the fight.

“Mother Giselle said the old Inquisition knew when to stop, when to step aside. I have no idea… I don’t have the _right_ to do what I’m doing, I know that - but I’m going to do it anyway. What if all I accomplish is destroying the world Andraste made?”

Dorian really could have done better than his blithe, oversimplified warning about the corruption of the Tevinter Circles. No excuse that he still hadn’t known Thierry then, hadn’t known how much the Inquisitor worries about just that possibility, the consequences of failure a steady backbeat to every decision he makes.

“I’m sure this will come as a terrible shock, but I’m not one for abdicating power. Letting go of a sword doesn’t make it disappear. It just means someone else will pick it up.” Dorian’s been groomed from birth, if not to desire power for its own sake than at least not to be uncomfortable with wielding it. 

Of course, he’s also not a good person, which helps considerably. 

“Anyone who tells you to fear your own strength usually wants it for themselves. Although I must say, I can’t see the Revered Mother on that particular throne anytime soon.” The current debacle gracing the main hall is a gift from Ferelden, part of the king’s kiss-and-make-up. Half a boat nailed to a wardrobe, pretending it’s a chair. “I’m not entirely sure her feet would touch the ground.” 

“Is the Tevinter Magister giving me a lecture on the proper care and feeding of authority?”

“Altus, you illiterate mongrel. Maker save us, you nearly made me use the word ‘responsibility.’”

The Inquisitor smiles, but it doesn’t last. A war horn sings out from the field below, one steady note sounding the next advance.

“Don’t let me become this. If I… don’t let them make me more than I was. I can’t be just another reason people kill in Her name.”

“Every time you insist I’m the moral center of this little enterprise, a chill goes up the collective spine.”

“I’ll take the man who thinks he’s a sinner over the one who’s certain he’s a saint.”

Certainly, Dorian could already do with a few less statues, those reverent monuments of self-congratulation and false humility. A repetition that couldn’t help but eventually suggest the opposite, the all-consuming need to wrest glory from chaos.

He wonders just how long the river ran red, watching the elves take two for each of theirs that falls, and then the battle flickers and they’re back to the civil war again, Celene and Gaspard’s troops bashing together with the same furious energy. Above and behind it all, forever and always - the Black City stands as a silent sentinel.

“Do you think it’s true?” Thierry murmurs. “ _Any_ of the shit we tell ourselves after the fact, about why we do what we do?”

“Remind me, when we’re actually awake - there’s a book you should see. One of the few things I took with me on the road.” Dorian says. “It’s a chapbook, nothing particularly famous - poetry, written by a Magister from the middle of the first Blight. No reason it should exist at all, that it ever should have survived. I’ve seen the original copy, in an archive in Minrathous - you can see the bloodstains, half a dozen kinds of ink, names of the dead scattered in the margins.”

He’d studied the Blights, of course, the chaos and the panic and the loss, but it had never really connected until he’d seen that tattered tome, topped with a family crest so much like his own, and even better penmanship, crowding to the charred edges of each page.

“In his entire province, _fifteen_ people survived the first night, and none of them were family. He spent nearly a year running and fighting, keeping them safe, trying to be wherever the monsters weren’t. I’m sure he thought the world was ending - and still, even then he took the time to make something beautiful, for the future. I like to remember that.” Dorian wants very much to believe in civilization, despite significant evidence to the contrary. “I think we try.  I want to believe the trying isn’t worthless. If all this was really inevitable, it wouldn’t be so sad.”

Dorian does wonder just how long this battle will go on, if they’ll actually fight to end of one or both of them when the question is rendered suddenly, balls-shrivelingly moot. 

The Mark on Thierry’s hand flickers, flares up and _every single spirit_ stops fighting, staring up at them as one.

“Okay,” Thierry says into the stunned silence. “Well, _I’ve_ just shit myself. In the Fade. So that’s what that’s like. Maybe we want to… wake up now?”

A few of the nearest spirits are already hovering that little bit closer. Dorian doesn’t believe in panic, but this may be worth the second cousin to mild alarm.

“You do know how to do that, yes?”

“… Um.”

————————————

Dorian’s eyes snap open to the sound of Sera swearing and the twang a bow in the other direction and the feeling, pinpricks skittering across his skin - one of his wards tripping.

He’s up and out, into the clearing with his next breath - barrier first, too close for fire but lightning will work if he’s got a clear line. Fortunately, Iron Bull and one of the scouts are already making quick work of the shambling corpses that have wandered into their camp and by the time Dorian thinks to look the Herald is standing there too; safe, sound and ready to cast.

Also half-awake, rumpled and lovely in the first light of dawn. So this is what he looks like, before there’s anyone around to impress.

_This is what he’d look like, after. If you and he…_

The Inquisitor’s smile is warm and welcoming, as if he’s thinking much the same.

“Just! Stay! Dead! Already!”

Sera kicks away at the last of the fallen corpses with the sort of fury that suggests she’s not a morning person. Scout Harding stands a few paces back, one hand raised in wary consolation.

“Uh, Sera… I think…”

“Stupid! Shitey! Dead! Shites!”

“Morning, boss.” Bull says cheerfully, and they all watch the eyeball dangle from a bit of gore at the very edge of his axe, before dropping to the ground with a barely audible plop.

“Okay, so… five more minutes?” Thierry looks around, and then ducks back into his tent. “Five more minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Wow, was this chapter difficult to write for no particular reason.


	14. Chapter 14

“Attaching yourself to a copy of the Servi Incunabulum?” Dorian sucks a breath in through his teeth, flipping carefully through the spellbinder’s tome. “Which is supposed to convince me you’ve _read_ it, I suppose. I’ve seen better binding runes in a nursery primer. Who did you have to bribe to graduate?” 

The Venatori, of course, doesn’t answer, flat on his back with an arrow through his eye, the fletching bright as a flower. Day two - more ramparts, more corpses, same smoldering mold-on-brown decor - and the first live enemy they’ve had in nearly twenty-four hours, though that had only lasted until Sera had a clear shot. 

Dorian doesn’t recognize the mage or the signet ring he wears - one more bit of evidence to be sent back over the border, another notch on the board of just who stands against them, how deep this ugliness is rooted. So far, it seems his tenuous narrative still holds weight, what Dorian desperately wants to believe in - these Venatori are the outlier, this year’s batch of has-beens and never-weres in the endless fight for power. 

Of course, Tevinter is no doubt delighted with the chaos they’re causing, just as long as no troublemakers slip back over the border. Hardly an inconvenience, when the only show of good faith it requires is casting out men like Alexius. He’d been a thorn in their side for years - his banishment as much a slap in Dorian’s face as any recognition of his efforts.

Still, as long as these Venatori remain a squabbling pile of third sons and fallen lords, as long as Dorian does not start to recognize members of the higher Houses among their ranks, it bears some vague semblance to hope.

“You see, this is the problem with relying on trinkets to do all your magic for you. A certain ossification of the mind, a self-limiting of options. I bet you slept with it under your pillow.” 

“Enough lecturing the dead, ‘Vint.” Iron Bull calls. “Just throw them both on the pyre already.”

“Yes, let’s tell the mage how to do his job.” 

Fire would probably do the trick, but the incoherent laziness evident in the tome is enough to encourage some caution. It seems the fool had tossed in whatever happened to wander past first, which means the book all but twists in his hand with competing energies. No wonder he’d been so little challenge, all that power furiously fighting itself before it could even be put into use. Dorian can sense the spirits’ attention inside, keenly interested now in the body of their former master, testing their bindings. It had all been set to unravel upon his death, a nasty little surprise, but he'd completely cocked up those runes as well - a failure at even remedial evil. Such a poor attempt from all angles that he practically deserves the second killing.

“Well, that’s… _Maker_ …”

The Inquisitor deliberately keeps his distance, watching cautiously as Dorian goes about unraveling the tangle of truly misbegotten thaumaturgy. Dorian smirks, though it worries him, especially after last night’s little escapade. The Inquisitor swears he’s all right, no ill effects, not even all that worried - but he still doesn’t have the training to deal with spirits, not the way he needs if he keeps taking random headers into the Fade. At any rate, it would be better if he didn’t return there alone.

_That’s right, Pavus. Tell him you ought to share a bed. You know, just to be safe._

As if the Inquisitor wouldn’t be happy to oblige him. It’s either deeply unfortunate or a true stroke of luck that they’re out here now, where the only thing he imagines doing in a tent is not having to be in one. No passionate clinches until he’s absolutely certain he’s scrubbed all the nature off.

He wants it to be good, their first time together. Special. Better than some careless tryst. An expectation that is just begging the Inquisitor to simultaneously flip him off while running away with the nearest courtier or stableboy, as if there’s a way this can end that’s worse than any other. At least his fantasies help pass the time between murders.

The first binding rips away like overtaut fabric, and Dorian catches the edge of it before the unwitting chain reaction can pop the second spirit free - _so sloppy_ \- and a proper nudge of magic with the right incantation sends the spirit firmly Fade-bound.

“What would this get you in your Circle, then?” Dorian shakes the book slightly. “Instant Tranquility?”

“I’d never make it that far, they’d just run me through. You?”

“A scolding. Reminders not to cheat so obviously on final exams.”

The Southern circles are ultimately ruled over by Soporati - Dorian has to keep reminding himself of that. Ignorance by design, on _purpose_ , to make sure what happened with the Black City and the darkspawn could never be repeated, that mages can never again gain the power to doom the world. 

It’s a defensive strategy. It’s historically justified. It’s also absolute fucking _madness_ , the only people deemed safe enough to make rules about magic incapable of truly understanding it. Of course, it isn’t about understanding, not about exploring the Fade or learning, even when that learning might save lives. The only goal is to never let the Imperium they’d beaten back take even the smallest root in Southern soil. Unexamined fear to systemic suspicion to what was, perhaps, an inevitable slaughter. It’s sad, really. The Templars Dorian knew had always trusted him, even the ones he _hadn’t_ been sleeping with.

He turns his focus back to the book, and the second binding follows the first, this spirit putting up a bit more struggle - _no you don’t, move along now_ \- and he watches Iron Bull smoothly step between the Inquisitor and the Venatori’s body even as Thierry moves to drag the corpse to the pile.

“I’ll get that for you, boss.”

Large hands make a quick, cautious inspection of the body, while Dorian wonders just which dead man’s switches were most common in Seheron.

“You know, I did check.” He says, and Iron Bull raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop and isn’t any less tense until he’s confirmed it himself and is dragging the man by both legs toward the pyre. The final binding is merely insipid, not as dangerous as it seemed at first glance, and he quickly follows the Qunari, snapping the now-empty book shut.

“A shame we couldn’t get any information out of him.” Dorian says.

He’s not all that upset. Doubtful this lackey knew much of interest - why distract the underlings with any real knowledge? Besides, keeping a blood mage alive long enough to ask questions means keeping them alive long enough for them to get ideas, and even up north that’s generally not recommended.

Iron Bull looks at him. “You really have the stomach for asking those questions?”

Interrogation, is what he means. It ought to be a challenge, a taunt, but there’s something buried in his tone, thoughtful and grim - the Qunari does have the stomach for it, but he’s not exactly proud of that.

“No…” Dorian has to admit. “I suppose not.”

Bull nods, and throws the body. Dorian tosses the book after it and the Eastern Ramparts are theirs.

———————————————————

“Oi, fancypants.”

“Sera, light of my life?”

“Why’d the Dalish refuse to trade with the Orlesians for a couple of halla?”

“Amaze me.”

“The cost was two deer.” 

The Venatori must still be hiring. At least one position here has just opened up. Maybe an eloquent apology along with his _curriculum vitae_?

“Get it? Deer? Get it?”

He suffers alone. The Herald isn’t paying any attention, all his focus on what Dorian assumes is the first actual halla he’s ever seen, grazing at the other side of a wide pasture. Somehow, the beast has managed to dodge the war and all its associated excitements, but Dorian can think of other things more worthy of such astonishment - a nine-course meal or a well-stocked liquor cabinet or rooms with doors.

“Oh, you _beauty_.” Thierry murmurs, all wide-eyed admiration. “Just look at you.”

“Looks like lunch.” Sera mutters.

The halla are off limits to the Inquisition, of course. A necessity, if they’re going to try and make nice with the Dalish, and Dorian can’t help but hope they can manage it, if only for the Inquisitor’s sake. 

“I wonder if-“ 

The Anchor chooses that moment to spark to life, a shudder of light and power, and for all the Inquisitor says about it not hurting he still winces, stumbling a half-step to the side. The halla disappears in an instant flash of near-silent white, only the fading thud of hooves on hard-packed ground to prove it had been there at all. Thierry sighs, glaring at his flickering hand. 

“What’s that? I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up!”

Fort Revasan had been as underwhelming as every other encounter with the Orlesians so far - more demons, even more demoralized, battered and frightened soldiers who contributed nothing but more suspicious frowning while the Inquisition did all the heavy lifting. 

The rest of the world is still hesitant to rally, mired in their own problems and deaf to the outside world. The threat of Corypheus is too strange, too ancient and impossible to be true, and a good portion of the Chantry has no interest in shifting the blame from the Inquisition, the attack at Haven nothing less than the Maker’s own judgment against apostates and heretics, although he’s not quite sure how the Red Templars fit into that smug certainty.

Dorian tries not to be too disheartened about how much easier it is to cast his countrymen as the leading villains even if they mostly are. Apparently a mob of evil Tevinters doing evil for Any Damn Reason is instantly believable, no explanations or evidence required. Not that the Marshal has any information on where they might be or what they’re doing - or anything else, for that matter. The man was entirely gracious while providing as little actual information as possible, once he’d determined they weren’t about to swear allegiance to either side. He does claim the cease fire has stopped the war completely, but if they were at the card table Dorian doubts he’d ante on that hand.

“Well, at least now they won’t mistake us for Celene’s troops and start shooting.” Thierry says. “Or they’ll apologize afterward and pretend they didn’t mean it.”

At the end of their mostly useless little chat, the Marshal had mentioned an unsettling silence from the Riverside Garrison, and with no other leads they’d pushed forward, stumbling over this new Rift and its prerequisite pile of demons on their way to what was no doubt another pile of demons with demons wandering at random along the road and Sera swearing under her breath for the last half-hour without pause.

The Anchor guides them into what was once the center of another pretty village, reduced to sad, shattered buildings and paltry piles of what must have been. It’s not the first ruin they’ve passed through, ground up and spit out from the scrum of the fight, but Dorian still isn’t used to this sort of devastation - the silence of it, nothing but the wind through the remains of people’s lives.

The Rift sputters ominously from the center of a courtyard, a rage demon burning deep furrows in the already blackened earth, two wraiths pacing slow, spectral circles in midair and the headache-inducing keen of a Despair demon echoing from beyond the far wall. The typical post-Breach demon grab bag, Orlesian flavor.

“Not a lot of room to work with here, boss.” Iron Bull says.

“And nowhere else to pull the fight.” Thierry agrees. “Call it.”

In Skyhold he presents a front of absolute authority, the unquestioned voice of the Inquisition. It’s the first thing to go out here in the field, Thierry ready to cede control to whoever has the most experience or the best idea. Which means they mostly take their cues from Bull when it comes to tactics, and for all his enthusiastic barbs Dorian will admit it’s rather unnerving to watch the Qunari think. The fierce intelligence behind his laconic indifference, Bull making plans the way another man might gut a fish - a few quick slices and then tear out the spine.

“Think you can take care of the wraiths?” The question’s rhetorical, but Dorian makes a face anyway.

“I wasn’t aware we’d run out of actual challenges.”

“Get rid of them _and_ the Despair demon without the other one charring your ass.” Iron Bull adds. “Try starting there.” He gestures to an alley across from them that Dorian hadn’t even noticed, half-buried in debris. Blasting the wreckage ahead of his advance won’t do any damage to the wraiths, but if he tosses an ice mine on one of the bits of building before flinging it, it might dissuade the Rage demon for a moment or two. 

“The Inquisitor and I will flank from this side. We try to pin them down, keep them cornered, hit them hard. Arrows from the rooftops whenever there’s an opening.”

In fights against demons, Sera is just as often distraction as damage dealer. Which sounds like a slight, but she has quite the knack for annoying even the more single-minded creatures of the Fade, drawing their attention for the one moment that matters.

“Keep an eye out for that Despair demon.” Iron Bull concludes. “And try not to fall down the well.”

Thierry frowns, staring up at the broken stone walls and charred ceiling beams that make up the perimeter of the courtyard. “You're sure it’ll hold?” 

As if the Inquisitor himself hadn’t been stomping his way across a creaking rooftop _just that morning_ because ‘something shiny.’

For her part, Sera gives a derisive snort, and with the barest sound of boot heel on tile, she’s already halfway up the nearest half-collapsed roof, pulling herself across the beams and up to an overhang with a tidy little flip.

“All right, then.” Thierry nods. “Everybody… watch your step.”

“The fearsome battle cry of the Inquisition.” Dorian smirks. “If only the demons had boots to shake in.” 

“All right.” He amends. “Everybody watch Dorian do this one on his own.”

———————————————

The plan works splendidly, right up until they run out of plan.

And then the Revenant shows up.


	15. Chapter 15

The memory is so distant and vague that Dorian half-believes it had never happened at all, except for the vivid certainty of his father’s hand around his own, the steady warmth of it. Which means he’d been younger than even his first trips home from school on holiday, and well before they’d asked him not to return. 

All he knows for certain, not the where or when or how of it, but that at some point he stood on a hill with his father and watched a Revenant slaughter its way across a distant plain. So far away from the scene that not even the noise of it reached them, all with the strange unreality of a stage play as bodies fell and the flash of desperate spellcraft cut wide arcs of light through ground and sky.

“What happened?”

His father sighs. “It appears they’ve made an error in judgment.”

“Can’t we help them?”

“It’s being taken care of. We would only get in the way.”

Which is when Dorian realizes that some mistakes are so big that this is what ‘taken care of’ looks like, that these men all know what they’re doing, but there are still things that can’t be undone without a body count.

“Power without control, Dorian. Remember this.”

Worth less than no power at all. It isn’t the first or last time his father will impart that particular lesson, and whatever he might believe, one that Dorian did make his own. A point of pride, that if nothing else at least his magic would be beyond reproach, precise and exacting. Never safe, of course- why be safe when there were so many interesting things to try - but no disaster would come from him simply because he believed it could not. 

Dorian learns more about Revenants and their charming kin as the years pass, of course - from books, from lectures and overheard stories of Templars’ worst adventures - “ _not going back to that fucking crypt I don’t care what they’re paying_ ” - but when he feels the ground shake, when Iron Bull goes flying, through half a wall that sends the rest of the building crashing down around him, and when Dorian turns to see the great armored wraith turn to face them he remembers that day on the distant hilltop, and another of his father’s constant admonitions.

Always plan for the worst. It saves time later on.

_… and to think, I’d almost stopped hating this place._

The two wraiths had gone down in quick succession, and the Despair demon was obliging enough to waltz right into its’ complement’s bellow of fire, the Rage demon preoccupied with trying to follow Sera’s arrows to their source. Iron Bull hefted his axe for the final swing, the Inquisitor freezing the fiery creature solid so he could carve it in two at his leisure, and Dorian turned to dispelling almost as an afterthought, tamping down on one of the fluctuations the Rift so whimsically spat out now and then. The fight had been over, more or less, Thierry already with one hand raised, the arc of power casting him in that odd, Veilfire glow.

The Inquisitor’s hand is still raised, now with the Revenant _right in front of him_ and Thierry moves to defend but it isn’t going to be enough, Dorian’s seen how hard these things hit. So he shifts his own stance at the last moment, winces at the spark of distortion, magic not fond of being so rudely twisted from one shape to another without warning but this means that the lightning he’d intended to throw down on the creature hits Thierry instead as pure force, tossing him away so that the sword that would have gone through his ribcage plunges through empty air instead.

“Stay back!” Dorian yells, which is stupid because both the Inquisitor and Iron Bull are now nowhere to be seen and he knows how Revenants work, not just speed and strength and durability but bringing their enemies to them - and even as he draws breath to tell Sera to get down he hears the clank of the chain in the air, snapping taut, hears a shout behind him and the sound of yet more buildings being pulverized. He doesn’t dare look, barely feels the relief when the flail comes back empty before the Revenant turns on him, chain already jingling in its skeletal hand, arm already moving to lash out and drag him in for the kill.

It’s not exactly a conscious decision, when Dorian makes his next move. A reflex that would probably get his knuckles firmly rapped here, mages firing off magic without doing their homework. In his defense, Dorian’s had quite a while to check and double-check even the smallest details, and with careful handling it even seems stable, causing no great strain on the Veil to relatively impressive results. He’d been on the verge of a field test anyway. It’s not like he’s about to unravel all of space and time. Probably.

The Revenant strikes. 

Dorian casts his first bit of true time magic, out in the real world. No amulets, no assistance, just his will and what he can do with it.

And the real world stops.

Well, not quite, but he’s left watching motes of dust and light suspended in treacle syrup, and a startled bird hovers overhead, each of its wing beats the slow stroke of a lazy swimmer and there’s the Revenant’s chain, uncurling toward him one a link at a time, and Dorian takes a single step back, watching it pass calmly by.

It works. It works. It fucking _works_. 

All those years. All that effort and study and the endless nights of near-success all collapsing to dead ends, and now that Dorian has it here in his hands Alexius no longer cares and Felix will never know. The thought hits with every ounce of force the Revenant could have managed, a devastating blow if not for the overwhelming, exultant thrill of the moment, of victory in the timeless, honeyed now.

He feels immortal.

Dorian does not want to rule, that’s never been the point. He has no interest in sitting on or kicking over the throne of the Maker, but there are moments like this, stretched to the very limits of his power, when it feels like he might be able to reach out and grasp at the edge of what is, pull it back and peek beyond the world and the Veil and the Void and say hello.

Of course, there still is the pesky matter of that Revenant, and beyond his wonder at the achievement Dorian knows this spell will burn through his reserves in a matter of moments if he doesn’t stop marveling at his own brilliance and fight.

So he drops the spell, and even as the Revenant’s chain draws back there’s a lighting spell chasing it down. Electricity works a treat on normal men in armor - less effective with the undead, _much_ less effective with one this powerful - but all Dorian needs to do is stagger it, enough to steady himself and fix his focus and draw in the time spell much closer, let it close in around him until he’s skipping seconds, heartbeats - watching the demon as if through a pane of glass at quarter-speed and wherever the creature is he isn’t. 

He lets loose with a fury of fire, ice, fire as fast as he can throw it- trying to stress-crack the armor even though the power holding it together seems to be absorbing most of his effort - but Dorian’s still fighting a Revenant, he’s fighting a Revenant _by himself_ and then there’s a bolt of lightning from the opposite corner, and another. The Inquisitor casts to his left and then comes the dark blur from his right, smashing into the demon’s side. Dorian can’t recognize the spell let alone who might be casting when he realizes Iron Bull has simply traded his axe for launching hunks of pastel-colored Orlesian architecture at the Revenant instead. 

Inspiration strikes, and he focuses on the path of each bit of masonry in midair, Iron Bull remarkably apt at consistent aiming, and a little time magic in the proper place speeds each shot until they’re hitting the Revenant with the force of Qunari cannon fire, no blackpowder required. It doesn’t take long after that before the creature folds in on itself, too battered and fractured to stand, a forceful blast from the Inquisitor throwing what’s left of it to be dragged back through the Rift, and he lifts a hand to shut that door for good.

Dorian feels the ground slide out from under him, shuts his eyes and leans heavily on his staff, panting for breath. It certainly won’t be something he can pull off every day, that kind of spell, but the fact that he could truly manipulate it on demand, that it worked at _all_ …

Power _with_ control is rather a marvelous thing.

“Sera!?” He calls hoarsely to the discomforting silence behind them, a distinct lack of arrows in that final part of the fight, though his sense of time is, at the moment, all over the map. The fight could have taken years or mere moments. “Still with us?!”

“Shitbugger knobby pissface arsetroll!”

She’s fine.

“So, I see you’ve gone and broken time again. Cassandra will be ecstatic.” The Inquisitor has the delightful tendency to treat joy as a full-contact sport, and quickly grabs him at the shoulder and around his waist, spinning them both in a sort of tackle that nearly sends Dorian to the ground. The Inquisitor has him, though, and this is exactly where he wants to be, reveling in the moment, leaning into that strength. 

“Are you all right?” Thierry says.

“Unstoppable.” Dorian breathes, rewarded with a hard kiss at the tender junction of his jaw and throat, the Inquisitor’s bright laugh. Distantly, he thinks he ought to be mortified, such affection right out in the open, but that’s not his life anymore, that’s not here, and here Dorian only feels drunk, giddy, utterly exhausted.

“ I never thought…” The Inquisitor trails off. Of course he hadn’t. The southern Circles would never dare to try. Most of the Imperium even thought he was chasing shadows. Thierry ought to hate him, for not abandoning it after what happened in Redcliffe. By all rights he ought to have never let Dorian set foot in Haven, let alone Skyhold, let alone... “You’re _magnificent_ , you know that?”

“I really am, aren’t I? Are we sure that's not an understatement?”

“Where did you even come from?” The Inquisitor murmurs, pulling him close. “You glory. You absolute wonder.”

For the first in a very, very long time, Dorian feels like it might be true.

—————————————————

He wakes up slowly, to the chorus of a song he doesn’t know.

The Inquisitor and Scout Harding are on opposite sides of the camp, trading off verses of the same melody in two different languages. Dorian keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the lilting harmony - neither of them professional, but there’s a simple beauty to it. Thierry sings in Orlesian, and though Dorian’s far from fluent he can pick out enough of the words to hear the story of a man who keeps mistaking one mistress for another, to increasingly comic results.

Harding sings the Ferelden version, about how much they hate Orlesians.

He’s well bundled in blankets, with what seems the sum total of the camp’s version of pillows all stacked together under his head. It’s one thing to spend his time complaining about not being coddled and another to actually _be_ coddled, and Dorian feels more than a little embarrassed, at least until he manages to sit up, and dizziness replaces most everything else.

It’s nearly the end of the day, the sun well on its way to setting. It seems he’s been sleeping for hours, when he hadn’t intended to at all.

“Here.” The Inquisitor is at his side, water flask in hand, and Dorian has it drained in three swallows, halfway through the second before he pauses to breathe.

“Where…?”

Back at the river camp. Dorian can see that easily enough. Which means Bull probably carried him there. Whatever’s on his face, it makes Thierry chuckle.

“You staggered back here on your own, if it matters that much to you. We all needed a rest after that one.” He doesn’t look tired, though. The Inquisitor looks excited, intent. “You are going to teach me that, right?”

“Will you feed me if I say yes?”

The fare is still nothing to smile about, but this is well past hunger - Dorian’s ravenous, and he doesn’t taste a single bite of either plate of what’s put in front of him. Thierry sits there, just watching him, as if he might read the answers to all his questions on Dorian’s face.

_Another mystery to solve. Well done, you’ve kept his interest. Bought yourself more time._

He’s still reeling from his success, that the thought glances off with barely a mark.

“The Garrison?” Dorian says, when he’s scraped the second plate dry, and started in on a third flask.

“We’ve got our scouts on it, they were able to pull Gaspard’s men out. It’s what we figured. Crypt. Rift. Demons. It seemed like a good idea to wait until morning, in case this Revenant business becomes a habit. Or I suppose we just send you in there and spend the day playing wallop. I bet Bull has a killer arm.” 

“When we get back to Skyhold, the Ambassador is giving me your room.”

“Don’t be shy, you can have it all. Obviously your bullshit impossible magic is better than mine, and I can finally go home.” The Inquisitor looks at Dorian, intent. “You’re really all right?”

“Fine.” Dorian waves him away. “I didn’t expect to open with a full-scale trial by fire, but the results seem promising enough.”

“I could barely see you move.” Thierry says. “You baffled the demon, by the way. I didn’t know it was possible to baffle a demon.”

Will he ever be able to share this success with the world? Imagine the damage it could do, even among those mages savvy enough to master it. Not taking into account those who would immediately try to increase its influence and expand on his results - and then they’re right back to Redcliffe, or much the same, the Veil unraveling bit by bit, chewed up by the short-sighted and power-mad.

A question to table for a future it still seems as like as not he won’t live to see. Take down Corypheus first, then worry about which Circle is worthy of his tenure. Minrathous seems the obvious choice, but Carastes is quite lovely in the spring.

It’s a peaceful end to the day, as it ought to be with the number of demons they’ve disposed of, and everyone can luxuriate in a few quiet moments around the fire. Sera sits a few paces back from the camp on a wide rock, mixing a few alarming bottles of unknown origin into one undoubtedly bad idea. The Revenant must have startled her into improving her countermeasures, although the collateral damage will likely prove more dangerous than a dozen demons. Dorian’s not quite certain he still understands the _purpose_ of Sera, but she certainly is exuberant at whatever it is.

The Inquisitor studies a map by the fading light, discussing tactics quietly with Harding and a few of the other scouts. Iron Bull is seated near the fire, and Dorian finds a place nearby, momentarily content just to stare into the flames and feel quietly victorious and wonder what impossibility he ought to tackle next. He feels a bit hollow, and his head aches when he reaches out with a thought to press against the places he’d pushed too far, his magic twinging like overtaxed muscles. Still, it seems remarkably little to recover from given the results, and he can only get stronger with practice.

A pile of books rest nearby, a motley mix of what was brought from Skyhold and anything that’s been picked up along the way. Dorian has already read through what he brought for himself, nothing truly interesting he wished to risk out here in the open, but he can see what looks like one volume of the oddly ubiquitous _Hard in Hightown_ wedged between two volumes of the history of Orlais, a dirt-edged edition of grand tales of the Chevaliers - and a translated copy of the Tome of Koslun. Intriguing.

“Wasn’t my idea.” Bull says, when Dorian picks it up. “He said he wanted to know more.”

Bad poetry, that’s the common consensus back home. The entire Qunari belief structure is incoherent nonsense invented to justify hyper-efficient tyranny, and while Dorian does know a few lines from the book, they’re mostly those related to _saarebas_ and their living imprisonment, the brutal measures of rendering them most ‘useful’. A system that reduces all people into things and calls it the natural order.

However, as Corypheus insists on existing, Dorian can hardly justify casting too many ideological stones.

“Of course he does.” He says, returning the book to its place. “The Inquisitor always wants to know more.”

Dorian can’t do this. He can’t let himself fall into this again, one more story that isn’t real. How many times? How many times to convince himself of all sorts of things only to watch it all vanish as if it had never been. It isn’t like magic, there’s no way to study and measure and try harder, no second and third and twenty-third chances until he figures out how to not be left behind. He’s learned how to walk away first, at least, but that won’t work now, not in Skyhold and it isn’t even… 

His staff is propped up against the crook of a nearby tree, with Thierry’s own weapon resting beside it. Loosely crossed, one over the other, focus crystals glittering ever so slightly with their shared proximity.

Sickeningly domestic - and his breath catches at the sight of it.

A seduction of such simple gestures. The impossible dream, the one thing that no amount of influence or coin or power could ever make manifest - a mage to fit at your side the way the best of staves fits in the hand, as if it had been made to go there - or as if you had been made for it. Trust and faith and loyalty, _Crescens and Seraphinian_ and loving far beyond yourself because it’s worth it, it’s worth everything.

_Why would he want that, from you or anyone else? What good is it to him, with half these people sure he’s Andraste’s chosen and the other half wanting to kill him for it? He has enough expectations on him already, you do him no favors adding yours to the pile._

Dorian keeps his place by the fire, testing his slowly refilling reserves by electrocuting the occasional troublesome insect, flicking his way absently through the adventures of the Chevaliers, a book that manages to be as full of blood and heaving bosoms as it is arrogantly certain of its own worth. He isn’t usually one for damaging the collected knowledge of man, but consigning this book to the flames has to be more improvement than loss.

“… but right now, our neutrality is all we have.” Thierry says to Harding, as they settle in close by. “The last thing we need is the Inquisition declaring themselves kingmakers. I’m a mage, I’m more than happy to call us out, but Orlesian politics… that’s beyond me. I still don’t understand why the Grand Duke’s fighting for the throne, except he thinks he ought to have it.”

“Maybe there was a bad dinner party.” Dorian says. “It’s usually a bad dinner party.”

“Hey. No. What’s this supposed to be?” Sera plonks down in the remaining spot, sighing in disgust. “Who brought Ambassador Ladyknickers? We beat down a whole crapload of demons, didn’t we! Means we should celebrate. I’ve got a game, ’s fun. ‘Never have I ever.’ Drink if you’re guilty.”

Thierry laughs. “Sera, look around you - we’ll all be dead in three rounds.” 

Scout Harding looks a bit nervous. “I’m not… sure I know how to play.”

“Easy. We drink until the first one pukes. Or falls over.” Sera says reassuringly, although the ways she’s mixing unlabeled bottles in the large tankard reminds him exactly of her earlier business on the rock, and is in no way a comfort. After a few frenetic motions, she hoists the mug and hands it to the Inquisitor to approve her work.

“Shouldn’t I have a poison tester, or…”

“Go on, you big girl’s blouse.” Sera scoffs. “Try it.”

No one denies him the honor.

“Maker’s breath!” Thierry gasps after the first tentative sip, his eyes watering, the tankard quickly at arm’s length. “No. Maker's piss. Definitely the piss. Sera, this is _not_ … are we sure it’s even from this side of the Veil?”

“It’s fine.” The elf retorts. “Well, it’s mostly fine, I think. Clench up, yeah?”

Thierry grimaces, and hits the mug with a heavy chill, until Dorian can see ice crystals skating up the edges, as if bringing down the temperature will make whatever’s inside any more palatable. He sees Dorian watching, and glares back.

“Smirk while you can, you’re next.”

Sera takes the cup with palpable glee. “Right. So… never have I ever been caught with no breeches.”

Dorian snorts. “Unlikely.”

The elf wrinkles her nose. “What, I pay attention. Not like you lot.” She smirks, as Dorian reaches for his punishment. “Right. See, knew it.”

He drinks, and instantly wishes he’d let the Revenant have him instead. Is his mustache on fire? Why is the mug making that fizzing noise? “For a bartender, Sera, I must say you are an excellent court poisoner. Also, I wouldn’t use the word ‘caught.’ Caught implies a reason for embarrassment.” 

The first naked stroll across school grounds had been a dare at fifteen, and Dorian never refused a dare, good or otherwise. He’d had to make a fast escape from an upperclassmen’s room at sixteen, with only his boots and his best smile to greet an entire courtyard of passers-by. An experiment at seventeen had incinerated his clothes and his notes _and_ the workshop door, and, now that he thinks about it, for a considerable period of time there’d been just as many, if not more people who knew better what Dorian Pavus looked like when he didn’t have a stitch on.

“In retrospect, I should have charged admission.”

Bull takes the cup from him and drinks what may very well _be_ the demon drink, one long pull without flinching at all, as if it’s no more than water. Showoff.

“Seheron.” He says. “A full-scale assault in the middle of my bath. It was two days before I could even find a towel.”

“That’s a good idea. We should remember that, when we locate the the Venatori. Element of surprise.” The Inquisitor says, but disappointingly does not drink. Dorian wiggles his tongue experimentally, in the faint hopes of getting some of the feeling back.

The game continues, some questions deliberately risqué, others less so yet still leading to surprisingly strange stories. It seems the life of a Ferelden shepherd involves the kind of squishy and occasionally gruesome tasks that would make even a blood mage pause for breath, though Harding only shrugs and swears it isn’t really that interesting. She also swears, despite Sera’s insistence, that no random passerby - drunken or otherwise - ever took a romp through her flock.

“Shame.” Sera says, one more grand legend consigned to the dust.

Never have I ever imagined Seeker Pentaghast in a dress. Never have I ever imagined Commander Cullen in a dress. Never have I ever been married - and Sera protests that one as obvious rubbish, until Bull takes another drink, and then tells them all one of those curious tales of the Chargers that Varric really ought to be writing down.

Never have I ever had two in bed at the same time - that offering from one of the other scouts, and when he and Bull and Sera and the Inquisitor _all_ drink, it’s clear Harding wonders just what sort of righteous cause she’s signed up with.

Three or more. Sera’s out.

Four or more. Thierry folds.

At five, both he and Bull agree to call it a draw, because there’s a point where you do just stop counting.

“This is the Joining, isn’t it.” The Inquisitor says, after Sera’s conjured up a new batch of… oh sweet Andraste Dorian can smell it from here, and it isn’t getting any better with repetition. “This is how it kills people.”

“I don’t think that would be lemon flavored.” Dorian considers. “Or is that the lizard bile I’m tasting?”

“All right.” Thierry says. “I’ve never… never ever… made out upside down?”

Sera drinks - Val Royeaux alienage, from the lowest branch of the _vhenadahl_. Dorian follows - Minrathous whorehouse, and a buckle that kept slipping free at the most inopportune moments. Bull seems set to finish the round - a pair of Rivaini sailors, off the coast of Seere - until Scout Harding coughs and glances away, the tips of her ears red as she reaches for the mug. Sera barks a laugh, punching her shoulder.

“Yeah! Good on you!” 

“Well, don’t I feel the blushing virgin.” Thierry says, and Dorian catches his eye, and the drink and the fire and the ripple of heat that goes through him - he probably should do some sort of penance, for enjoying himself this much in the middle of a war zone.

Sera grins. “All right. Never… had it off with a Templar.”

Bull drinks. Haven and Skyhold, and different Templars in each. So much for any lingering illusions about excessive Southern piety.

Dorian drinks, and it’s strange to be able to tell these stories so easily, to talk about his past without deliberately intending to cause a scandal. The Imperium’s Templars were often an excellent way to exercise those inconvenient, baser urges. All the hours of training certainly did them no harm once the armor came off, they were easily at hand for quick, uncomplicated trysts and it was well known among their ranks that aligning oneself with the right House at the right moment could lead to quite profitable ends. Dorian had never proved quite that impressive a payout, but he’d been generous with gifts and affections and never gotten anyone murdered, which kept him in high enough esteem.

He tells a few amusing anecdotes - the Templar with the birthmark in the shape of the Black Queen of Antiva on the inside of his knee, the time one of his more considerate lovers had tried to fix him flatcakes without at least three necessary ingredients. Of course, there’s little a mage and a Templar in the Imperium could manage to match the implicit scandal or danger of a southern affair, so he doesn’t mind being upstaged when Thierry reaches out for the mug.

Iron Bull looks at Sera. “Pay up.”

The Inquisitor stares at them, as the elf flips him a silver. “What, we’re wagering on _me_ now?”

“It’s not about _you_ you. ’s about _Inquisitor_ you.” Sera explains with oddly vague-yet-complicated accompanying gestures. At least the drinking can’t make her any less sensible. “It’s historical documentation. It’s like… patriotic. Or whatever.”

“Just make sure this goes in your report, Bull.” Thierry sighs. “I wouldn’t want the Ben-Hassrath to feel they were missing out on the vital, beating heart of the Inquisition.”

“It’s the Commander, innit?” Sera guesses. “You and him, all those late night meetings.”

“Cullen?!” Thierry laughs. “Maker, no. Not that I won’t salute whoever does summit that mountain. Besides, he’s not a Templar anymore. It wouldn’t count.”

“I thought he was with…” Harding starts, and then immediately checks herself. It seems she may not share that mythical dwarven tolerance for alcohol. “I mean, I’m not sure. I’ve seen him with a mage. Sometimes. It’s probably nothing. I really shouldn’t… talk.”

“He’s found someone? A mage? Which Circle?” Thierry says brightly, and Dorian can’t help but be pleased as well. The Commander tends to take self-sacrifice to a level suitable only for martyrs and statues of martyrs - it’s nice to think he’s finally found something to occupy his time beyond the confines of the war table.

“Right, no changing the subject. Who was it?” Sera says, refusing to be set off target. “You’ve gotta tell, yeah? Makes you almost wish Creepy were - no, wait. I didn’t say that.”

Iron Bull’s eyes narrow. “It was that Knight Commander of yours. In Ostwick.”

Now there’s a shot in the dark - Dorian wonders where Bull might have even thought to consider - but then here’s Thierry, wide-eyed and bright red because the mercenary’s gone and hit it in one. The Qunari laughs. Dorian laughs too. The Inquisitor looks sheepish, and then away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“How… exactly did we get on this topic again?” 

“C’mon, spill it!” Sera crows.

“Nothing happened. I swear we didn’t… though not for lack of me trying.” Thierry reaches out, poking at the fire with a bit of twig, to avoid having to look at any of them. “I may have had a bit of a… thing. For him, for a while. Quite a while, maybe. I never thought it would matter. But… then there we were, about a day out from the Conclave, and it was our last night… alone. We tried to keep to ourselves on the trip down. Maker knows who on the roads, looking for trouble. The Knight Commander knew what he was doing. He always protected us, he always… anyway, I…” 

Thierry clears his throat, still a lovely shade of mortified. 

“He was a good man, the best sort of man, and Templars… they do tend to age well, when they have the opportunity. I figured… it seemed just as likely we weren’t coming back. Tensions were high, we all figured somebody was going to do something damn stupid and - it was a… cold night.” If there’s a place past crimson, he’s found it. Sera snickers. “Yes, I may have actually said I’d be happy to keep him warm.”

Dorian tries and fails to keep from imagining it - the Inquisitor eager and nervous and uncertain, probably as embarrassed as he is now, and the sort of stalwart moral rectitude it would require to even _attempt_ to resist that. 

He would make an exceedingly poor Knight-Commander.

“Smooth, boss.” 

“He turned me down, of course.” Thierry sighs. “He said that he was flattered, that I shouldn’t be embarrassed, but that the vows he’d taken, his position of authority - it wouldn’t be proper.”

“I bet it wouldn’t.”

The Inquisitor flashes Sera a smirk, which she returns. “So, we didn’t do anything, and an excessively awkward night in the Ferelden countryside was had by all. Walking into impending doom didn’t seem quite so bad after that.”

“Right then, so if not him, who was it?” Sera says. “You had one, right? What was his name?”

Thierry sighs. 

“Her name was Kate. Catherine Kyles, out of Starkhaven.”

Iron Bull gestures for another coin from Sera, and the Inquisitor stares.

“ _Seriously_? I want in on this pool.”

Dorian’s suddenly grateful for the shadows around the fire, not that anything shows on his face. Not that he has any reason to be upset. Or any reason to be surprised. Or care. The rules here aren’t… there are no rules here, not really. Only his own assumption, that the Inquisitor’s desires had always been a match to his own. It shouldn’t matter, to discover otherwise. Why would it matter?

“It was… she was just one more Templar, at first.” Thierry says. “One day she shows up with the new rotation, with this sour look on her face, the way they always did when they were looking for a fight. I think we were in it by noon, every circular argument mages and Templars ever came up with. We sniped at each other for weeks - even the Knight-Captain had to step in once or twice, just to get us to stop. Always in each other’s faces. Testing the lines, seeing who was going to blink first.” He lets out a slight huff of laughter. “So one day, we’re alone and bickering like usual and I swear I thought she’d finally just punch me - and the next I know I’m on my back in a kitchen storeroom trying not to get crushed by that damned breastplate because it would take a half-hour for her to get the thing back on and we had to have _some_ attempt at saving our asses if we got caught.”

“Damned maleficar are in the spuds again.” Bull mutters.

“Mage robes are a lot easier to navigate, is all I’m saying.” Thierry says, and his gaze is distant, lost in the memory. “Oh, she had laugh you could hear for a country mile. A bit of that Starkhaven burr, this long blonde hair she always kept in a braid. Swore like an entire fleet full of sailors when she forgot she was trying to be well-mannered. I wish you could have…” He makes a vague gesture, as if trying to catch invisible threads. “I barely knew her, really. She was always… something scared her, before she came to Ostwick. Scared her badly. Maybe a mission went wrong, or… I don’t know. I think I was some sort of trial for her. As if she was trying to prove something to herself, by being with me. It was good, what we had, but she never told me more. Nothing about whatever it was… I only hope I helped.” 

“Any chance we might run into her?” Iron Bull says, his voice clear of any suggestion which side they might find her on. The Inquisitor gives a slight shake of his head.

“She transferred out of the Ostwick Circle after a few months, for more experience in the field. The next time we crossed paths was… at the Conclave. I saw her, just for a minute, and she gave me this little half-smile and I thought ’well, at least that’s one for our team.’”

The fire pops. Thierry grimaces, raises the mug toward the fire and takes another sip, a salute to the fallen.

“Sorry. Guess I kind of killed the mood. What about-”

“Boss.”

The word is calm, quiet - but also a warning, Iron Bull looking steadily out past the firelight, into the dark. Dorian follows his gaze, to the pair of eyes that are watching them, just visible beyond the edge of the camp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. http://archiveofourown.org/works/3124394 - I dig this fic about Bull having to marry one of the Chargers as part of a job.
> 
> 2\. … and everyone picks up their second-act specializations.


	16. Chapter 16

At first glance, the thin figure seems more shadow than shape - another corpse, perhaps - but then he edges into the light and… well, that’s not much of an improvement. Dorian is instantly reminded of Cole, this boy also as pale as a halla and twice as tense, ready to flee at the first sign of danger.

“Hello, there.” Thierry says softly.

The boy doesn’t move, and Dorian can’t help but be amused at the way his eyes dart across their camp, fixing and widening in horror the moment he reaches Iron Bull, immediately discounting the rest of them as lesser threats. 

“Do you need help?” The Inquisitor’s voice is soft, as if coaxing out a frightened fennec. “Are you hungry?”

A fragile hand works nervously at the edge of his filthy, tattered shirt but otherwise the boy still doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. 

The Inquisitor rises slowly, every movement measured and open, never taking his eyes off the boy as he slides the nearest supply of rations into a sack and tosses it in a low, slow arc over the fire, where it lands at the boy’s feet, his thin legs all the more spindly from being shoved into a pair of battered, too-large boots. 

One more frozen moment, and then both boy and bag are gone, quick and silent back into the dark.

“Where is he even living out here?” Thierry whispers. Difficult to imagine a safe enough place, most everything they’ve passed either fallen over or about to, and that’s not even taking the wandering packs of demons into account.

“She.” Bull says. “That was a girl, boss.”

Sera nods as well, and once more Dorian realizes that there are whole worlds out there that he’s never lived in, knowledge he has not the first idea how to acquire.

“We should have seen her earlier. Much earlier.” Harding says, frowning, though it’s hard to tell if she’s more upset about the oversight or the state the girl was in. 

“I imagine she’s had time to practice sneaking around.” Thierry says. “Do we have an extra cloak?”

Harding nods, and goes to retrieve one, Thierry still staring out into the dark where the girl had vanished. Bull is looking too, but Dorian doubts it’s for exactly the same reasons. One starving girl on her own may not be much threat, but what are the odds she’s actually on her own?

It seems they’ll get a chance to find out. Now that they’re all listening for it, the soft rustle of approaching footsteps carries in the quiet, and the Inquisitor makes a slight gesture toward the scouts, who calmly pretend to go about their work as the girl reappears. On closer inspection, he thinks he can see what Bull noticed from the start, though her efforts to hide herself are quite thorough - hair chopped down to nothing, clothes bulky and shapeless.

“You look cold.” Thierry says. “You’re welcome to share our fire, if you’d like.”

He doesn’t move. None of them do, as her eyes flick back and forth to whomever shifts slightly or breathes too loud.

One good reason to never regret being a mage, to know he will likely be able to defend himself in some fashion, no matter the circumstances. The girl has a short, dull knife tucked in the piece of rope she's using as a belt but she still seems certain that at any moment their smiles will disappear, that they’ll fall on her like wolves, and what happens after that… Dorian doesn’t want to know what happens after that.

The sheer strangeness of their group does seem to lessen her fears, Sera and Scout Harding in particular not conforming to any usual band of marauding monsters. When the first step doesn’t get her killed, she takes another, and another, edging in toward the firelight. 

“Is ‘e your demon?”

At first, the meek question makes no sense - and then Bull lets out a soft chuckle. She thinks the Inquisitor has _summoned_ him.

“You’ve never seen a Qunari before?” A slight shake of her head, and he straightens up proudly, turning his head to make sure his horns catch the firelight. “Well, you have now. Impressed?”

The girl slowly nods, and Bull laughs again.

He has a way with people. Dorian doubts it’s anything the Ben-Hassrath could have taught him, an inborn easiness and disarming nature that is utterly alarming, when one remembers to step back and see how well it works. If Bull has ulterior motives beyond the ones he’s already declared, he is incomparably dangerous, all the best tricks of Minrathous and Val Royeaux tucked away beneath a smile and a shrug. 

If he is, deep down, as decent as he seems… Dorian has no idea what to think of that, except that there’s probably something wrong with him, for being most suspicious of anyone who doesn’t immediately go for the jugular.

The Orlesian girl is not immune to Iron Bull’s charms, at least enough to believe he isn’t going to devour her whole, and after a few moments’ more hesitance, she’s perched cautiously at the other side of the fire, still far enough to make a run for it should the situation demand. It isn’t a terribly chilly night, but Dorian thinks he can see her shaking. Poor thing. 

Carefully, Harding steps forward to hand her a cloak, and within moments the girl has wrapped herself in it, her eyes unreadable now, catching reflections from the flames.

“Are you all alone out here?” Thierry says. Instantly, she tenses, and he lifts his hands slowly, to calm her - and she gasps, eyes going wide, fixed on the green glimmer slashed across his palm.

“You’re ‘im.” A whisper, barely a flutter of sound. “You’re… _The ‘erald of Andraste_.”

Before Thierry can answer she’s on her feet, as if all remaining questions of who they are and what they want are null and void, and then she’s rushing forward and he hears Harding hiss sharply in surprise and he’s already got the barrier spell half cast but the girl is on her knees before the Inquisitor, her face to the ground in absolute supplication, no longer at all concerned with saving herself.

Nothing in this world the Inquisitor hates more than having people bow before him. He always straightens his shoulders, always accepts their praise with a solemn nod or smile before helping them back to their feet with a gentle admonishment that only Andraste and the Maker deserve such honors, that he is only a servant as they are.

Behind that calm humility, Dorian can see the moment of raw fear, the way the Inquisitor fights to keep from shying away from that veneration like a spooked horse. Every line in his body shouting _I don’t want this I don’t want it_ in the moment before he leans down, puts his hands on the girl’s thin shoulders and helps her to her feet. She’s crying now, hands in fists and head down, tucked against her shoulders in obeisance.

“My b-brother,” she whispers, the words breaking quickly over each other. “Please, ‘erald. Please, your Grace. My brother is sick. ‘e is d-dying. Please, if you will ‘elp, I will…” A frantic look in her eyes, aware she has nothing to bargain with. “They say you are a mage. You can ‘ave me. You can ‘ave me, to spare his life.”

“A bit young for the ritual sacrifice.” It comes out automatically, and Dorian immediately wishes he’d refrained - she doesn’t know that he’s joking.

“It’s all right. It will be all right.“ Thierry reassures her. “No one’s going to hurt you. I’ll help, if I can. Of course I want to help you.”

The girl is stunned, shaking with the relief of so many horrible outcomes that hadn’t come to pass, until finally she regains the courage to nod.

“Give us a moment?” The Inquisitor says, moving for weapons and supplies and a bit of breathing room between them and the girl who retreats to the edge of the fire, ready to go.

“Well,” Dorian says quietly, “I certainly can’t think of a more obvious trap.”

Thierry reaches for his staff.

“I’d just like to apologize now if I’m about to get us all killed.”

“No problem, boss.” Iron Bull says, as if it’s nothing to step into an unknown situation in pitch darkness with zero advance warning. Of course, he’s also the one who lost his eye for a man he’d never met before. Dorian had finally heard that story from Krem, over a cup of very-close-to-perfect coffee he’d only had to abase himself extravagantly to win. “It’s what we signed up for.”

“I didn’t,” Sera mutters, but she does it while hoisting her quiver onto her back.

“I probably should try to talk you out of this.” Scout Harding says. “If she’s with anyone, they’re most likely Freemen. We have no idea what’s out there waiting for you.”

Thierry sighs.

“I’m the Herald of Andraste - and she wouldn’t say no.”

—————————

Dorian wonders about that, as they carefully follow the girl across the Orlesian countryside, a depthless, empty black, the silhouettes of burned and shattered buildings even more lonely now, set against the light off the water. Thankfully the moon is full and bright tonight, more than enough light to see by - no excuse to light a torch and make themselves any bigger of a target than they are. The Inquisitor is worried for them, afraid that his selflessness is leading them into danger. He thinks that’s what Andraste would have felt. Dorian wonders if it’s true.

“’S good, right?” Sera mutters softly, mostly to herself. “All helping the little people, Sera. Right? Maybe not _these_ people. Who knows? At least it’s not more sodding demons.”

One of the scouts is trailing them, will follow to wherever it is they’re going, and then report back to Harding at the main camp. Which won’t do much good if they’re walking into an army of Freemen, but at least it feels like a plan. 

Dorian wonders what Bull or Sera would do if overrun, if defeat was unavoidable. His own plan has always been fairly simple - just bite his lip, the inside of his cheek, and after that lovely opening salvo, use the blood of his enemies until they’ve done him enough damage that he can rely on the rest of his own. 

He may not be a blood mage under usual circumstances, but Dorian is the first to admit he’s a spitefully poor loser.

Which is why all of these thoughts - the plan, the Freemen, Andraste herself - are all just a way to keep from thinking about the Inquisitor’s last admission at the fire - his time with his Templar lady. Lovely and loving her and enjoying it, and the fact that she’s quite dead and yet he’s still jealous is just one more shallow humiliation Dorian’s glad he never has to share.

One silly game, and he knows much more about Thierry than he ever had before. Of course, Dorian hadn’t asked. It’s been so easy to be with him, just be - and so he’s grown complacent. Or he didn’t _want_ to learn more, because learning more meant finding out exactly this, the insurmountable obstacle waiting for him at the end of it all. Hard truths rarely tip in his favor, so Dorian’s learned to avoid them for as long as possible. Start getting serious and find yourself out in the cold. Make yourself too inconvenient and people will wonder why they keep you around.

_He doesn’t know. The Inquisitor honestly doesn’t know what you are._

What is he, exactly? What does it even mean here, where no one really cares? The first time Dorian had seen two men kiss out in the open, just a casual bit of midday affection, he’d nearly walked into the side of Haven’s Chantry hall in shock. It had gained him an ugly look for staring, what they must have seen as more high-handed Imperial judgment, which was so profoundly and hilariously _wrong_ that Dorian had to find a quiet, empty patch of earth and just breathe for a while, trying to remember how to feel.

It’s the grandest comedy, really - be himself, be a mage in Minrathous and lie about all the rest, or be locked up and bound in any Circle in the rest of Thedas, his powers shackled and whittled away - but where no one would really give a damn about who he loved.

Has the Inquisitor actually _said_ he’s ever been with another man? 

The Knight-Commander? But that hadn’t ever happened, had it? And who knows how much of that was just hero worship. Dorian had assumed… but he does that, doesn’t he? It’s nicer not to know. The Inquisitor was happy to flirt with Josephine or Harding - even Cassandra, just to watch her pretend not to notice. Of course, Dorian had as well, and only now did he realize they might not be doing it to the same ends.

Maybe the Inquisitor doesn’t even see a problem - there’s fun and games, Dorian, and then there’s real life. This story ends the way they all do: the Inquisitor and his lovely bride, and all the peace and happiness of the realm as their own.

It’s not even his fault, not any particular failing. All his looks and charm and pedigree and Dorian’s worth absolutely nothing against that one simple fact. He’s out of the competition before it even begins. 

_Presuming, of course, that you were ever in it._ Dorian’s certainly been the experiment before, the exotic adventure. _Fasta vass_ , he might just as well consider it a compliment.

_You may wish to schedule a different time for this pity party, Dorian? The Freemen may not all fit on the guest list._

So he stops brooding over it - mostly - listening instead for any cracking twigs or rustling grasses or the slightest hint of pull on the Veil. But the night is still, only a few crickets and frogs and the occasional wolf howling off in the deep distance - and when they finally do reach their destination, it is no grand fortress crawling with assassins fit for ambush, but a smallish cave with a single man standing sentry at the entrance. Once they step onto the path and declare themselves, he does draw his sword, though it seems he has no idea what ought to come next. 

————————————

“He’s asking her what she thought she was doing. She snuck out. They were worried.” Thierry says, eyes narrowed in concentration, listening in to the whispered torrent of frantic Orlesian as the girl they’d followed argues with the sentry, their voices tight and furious with gestures to match. “Also, there’s swearing. A lot of swearing.” 

“I assumed as much.” Dorian says. He knows a few of _those_ words, at least.

“I don’t… my Orlesian isn’t exactly…”

Out of nowhere, the girl slaps the man, hard, and disappears into the cave.

“He told her that her brother was already good as dead.” Iron Bull says. Dorian raises an eyebrow, though the mercenary is as placid as ever.

“Any other tongues you’re fluent in?”

“Plenty.” Bull smiles. “But why spoil the surprise.”

“Children.” Thierry mutters, as the mouth of the cave begins to fill with light, the sound of footsteps and angry voices in the air. “Let’s be on our best behavior for the vigilante pitchfork mob.”

The torches grant them a bit of shadowed menace, but beyond that the men who greet them aren’t much better off than the girl - just as filthy, tattered and starved. Most of them young, a few shockingly so. Armed as haphazardly as possible while still being able to claim the word - a few ill-used swords, more axes and other farmers’s tools. All of them together are nowhere near as intimidating as Bull alone, even with the axe on his back instead of in his hand. Still, one or two might get a lucky shot, if they all rushed in at once, and Dorian can’t exactly say he would take much joy in such one-sided self defense.

One man moves to the front of the group, a little taller than his compatriots, a little less obvious fear in his eyes.

“What do you want here? Why did you follow Nicole back to us?”

The girl makes to speak, but he silences her with a glare.

“She said she needed help.” Thierry says. “She said her brother was in trouble.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “Are you with the Grand Duke?”

“No.” Thierry says, for what may actually be the thousandth time. “The Inquisition has no stake in the Civil War, or any other Orlesian affairs. All we are here to do is close the Rifts and stop the demons.”

“Are you really him? The Herald of Andraste?”

Thierry holds his hand up, which at least is a bit of a time saver. The usual awed murmur shoots through the crowd, gasps and whispers until the man raises his own hand to silence them. A long moment passes, and then they’re being slowly, nervously led inside

It’s not a particularly good place to them to be, for any number of reasons, though a part of Dorian is fascinated - he’s read enough stories of smugglers’ caves and secret bandit lairs, it is a bit interesting to find himself in one.

He keeps sneaking glances at Bull’s expression - certainly he’s had experience with places like this, though if there’s any reason to be tense the Qunari betrays none of it. His expression is as calm as if he were tipping his chair back at the Herald’s Rest, while the men who’d gathered to meet them jostle and gape and scatter out of his way. Dorian doubts he’s truly feeling so assured - too many unknowns, too much of this out of their control, but the Inquisitor’s made his decision so here they are.

A dimly lit mix of guttering torches and moonlight lights the way - the roof of the cave has cracked in places, which does provide more illumination while making ominous suggestions about stability. In short order the tunnel opens onto a wider, terraced cavern, with paths sneaking away into shallower, lesser ‘rooms,’ a few curtained by tattered rags, others piled high with splintered boxes and barrels.

If they are Freemen, it doesn’t seem they’ve had much success at it. A few of the men are clothed in scraps of uniforms taken from armies of either side, one or two half-decent swords here and there but mostly it all looks like the scattered remains tossed up after a shipwreck, the smell of sweat and fear and food on the edge of spoiling all thick in the air. Maybe twenty men and women in total, most looking tired and hungry and not eager for a fight, although who knows how long that will last?

Thierry made sure they’d brought extra food and supplies, a good portion of what they’d had at the Riverside camp. He makes the offer to an eager murmur of excitement, and the moment Dorian sets down the pack he’s been carrying it simply vanishes, passed from hand to hand and gone.

He can smell their destination even in the common room, the sickly-sweet stench of rot rising even above the room’s smoky fug, and as they move toward one of the smaller back ‘rooms’ it’s either put a hand to his mouth or gag and very possibly both. 

The wooden pallet is well-stained with the young man’s blood, and Nicole is at his side in an instant, his slack hand pressed between hers. 

“Anton, I’m back. I’ve brought ‘elp. The ‘erald of Andraste. You’ll be well again, very soon.”

The damage is extensive, poorly-wrapped bandages with thick, dark slashes peeking through all along his chest and down his side, his skin alternately feverish and gray - the corpses they’d fought in the Ramparts looked better than this. A few sprigs of wilted elfroot and some tepid, cloudy water rest in a bowl nearby, but there’s obviously little more they know how to do for him.

The Inquisitor is very quiet, staring down at the wounded man with an unreadable expression. Dorian’s never actually seen him heal, and this seems like a job even the best would find daunting.

“Well.” He says, very softly. “All right, then.” 

“Infection’s probably in the blood.” Bull says, very soft. “Might be more of a mercy…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Thierry nods, but he steps back toward the girl, crouching down until they’re eye-to-eye.

“I don’t know if I can save him, but I promise you, I’ll do everything in my power to try.”

It’s not an offer free from consequence. This is far from a safe position, and if anyone saw them arrive every minute they stay is one that the Freemen or the Venatori might be using to move in, to gather their forces for an ambush. Not that Dorian could make the argument to leave… Maker, just look at these people. So tired and out of hope that the Inquisition means little more to them than the next blow to fall, and they barely have the strength to care.

Thierry is already prepping, downing half a flask of lyrium, mixing the other half with water and leaving it to steep - a makeshift time-delay, for when a spell’s going to need a consistent, low level of energy for a long time.

“An hour. Just… give me an hour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I promise that someday, eventually we will get off the Plains. (It's like the goddamn Oregon Trail up in here, wtf.) I don't think there's another area that will get half this much attention.
> 
> 2\. I imagine Pyrrhic victories for blood mages must be all _kinds_ of fun. (Also known as the 'no, _fuck you_ ' spell)


	17. Chapter 17

It’s hardly an unfamiliar setting, surrounded on all sides by suspicion and imminent treachery, but Dorian finds it a boon to sobriety nonetheless.

The mood is quiet, and tense, even more so with how they’re all trying to pretend it’s not. 

Iron Bull had not-so-subtly encouraged the guard at the mouth of the cave to join them inside, so anyone coming in will have to do so blind - of course, that hardly provides them with any useful information. Hopefully, their own scout has made it back to the Inquisition camp, and there’s at least some possibility of help should things take a turn.

At the moment, it’s quiet enough. A few people are resting on makeshift bedrolls in what passes for alcoves, other groups sitting here and there speaking quietly among themselves while cutting careful looks at Bull, at Dorian, at the ragged curtain and the occasional flicker of magic behind it, where the Inquisitor’s been for what feels like an hour already. Among his seemingly infinite talents, Iron Bull has a near-perfect sense of time. He’ll likely call this one to the minute, if they actually make it that long.

“Oi, are we telling them about how we fought off the Archdemon and Coryphifish _and_ his army of Red Wankers or not?”

Red Jennies. Red Templars. Obviously Sera’s a bit perturbed that they’re encroaching on her naming rights. Dorian makes a vague gesture, certain she’ll interpret it however she intended to anyway. 

The sheer novelty of Bull’s appearance has made Sera’s presence all but normal. A few whispered comments about knife-ears in fancy armor flitted about the room at first, but they’d seemed more honestly surprised than intending to cause any real offense. As soon as Sera started in on the tale-telling, she had a captive audience, happy to listen to her talk up her exploits, and the adventures of the Inquisition. More than a few questions, though, have fixed on the surrounding countryside - did the Inquisition see this village, do they know about the soldiers in that army - fathers, sisters, sons.

Dorian and Iron Bull have a fair view of the room between them - Bull with the strongest defensible position, and Dorian in the spot with a direct view of the back, so that no one might take advantage of the Inquisitor’s preoccupation.

The staff he carries grants him a wide berth, no reason to get too close to a mage - except for Nicole, who is nearly at his side and doesn’t seem to notice he’s there, her eyes fixed on the doorway of the makeshift clinic. Dorian can see her lips moving in silent prayer, one hand clutching what might be a Chantry amulet.

“It’s a good sign, that he hasn’t come out yet.” Dorian says, and hopes he knows what he’s talking about. The girl barely nods, and it’s a long time before she even glances at him again.

“Did the ‘erald save you too?”

Oh, for adorable urchins and their unwittingly incisive questions. Dorian’s been ignoring most of his thoughts in that direction - any lingering melancholy simply a combination of whatever Sera called alcohol and coming down from that fight with the Revenant, with all that magic so eager to be spent. 

It’s not the first time he wished he could just live there instead of here, in the brightest moment of his best spellwork. He’d often wondered if spirits had an easier time with it all - one emotion, one thing to be and no other demands, no other ties to the world - though Cole’s existence would suggest it’s not quite that simple. Nothing ever is.

_Do you honestly think the Inquisitor would hurt you?_

No, not intentionally. Maybe. Who can say?

_He might say. If you ask._

“Actually, I saved him. Don’t listen to anyone who says otherwise.”

The girl blinks, trying to process the nonsensical, that the Herald of Andraste could ever require anything, let alone _help_.

“You’re a mage, too?”

“Dorian Pavus, of House Pavus. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, even under circumstances such as these.”

He throws an extra bit of dashing charm into the grin, rewarded with a shy if baffled smile in return. She has no idea what to make of any of this, probably still astonished it hasn’t yet ended for the worst.

“If I may ask - what did happen to your brother?”

Nicole shrinks in on herself a bit, arms around her tucked-up legs, but she gestures to the man at the other side of the cavern, the one who’d held them up at the entrance. He still looks angry - there’s a cloud over the entire group of men he’s sitting with, and Dorian has seen sharp, quiet words exchanged more than once. He wonders what Bull has noticed, the subtle clues Dorian doesn’t know to see.

“Julian is the blacksmith’s son.” Nicole says following his gaze. “Was.”

Dorian wonders which of the charred piles of demon-topped ash they’d passed used to be home.

“The leader of this merry band of Freemen, is he?”

“We are not Freemen, messere.” Nicole says, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Julian… went to speak with them, but they sent ‘im away.”

Whatever their claims to equality and freedom, the Freemen have the same high ambitions as the leaders they’ve run from. The Venatori are their true masters, and a band of half-starved cannon fodder would mean little to them but a waste of resources. It’s rather a minor miracle they hadn’t all been killed for sport. 

“A man came, from the Grand Duke. ‘e said our village ‘ad to fight, that our men were soldiers now in ‘is army. So they went. Then Julian, ‘e found out they were going to send them against the Empress’ best men. A distraction, so that the Chevaliers might gain some ground. They would ‘ave been slaughtered, so… he and my brother, they ran away. We all ran away.”

Dorian is an exceedingly fortunate man, all things considered. It is strange and humbling to think that even the very worst moments of his life might be better than some men’s best days. The longer he stays out here, the more he is grateful for not just the luxuries, but for the outlook they gave him on the world. He has only known hardship as a thing to live through, not a thing to _be_. Not knowing if what today brings will make it possible to live to tomorrow, let alone next month, next year.

It has never been expected of him to die gratefully in other men’s wars.

“The ramparts… we… we needed food, and supplies.” Nicole says, voice low again, with a hint of shame.

Scavenging the battlefield, stealing from the dead? As a necromancer, his sentimentality is limited at best - wherever men go after death they don’t seem to stick around and so what they leave behind might as well be put to use - certainly, Dorian would rather someone avail themselves of whatever he has in his pockets once he’s gone. If they can find some amusingly outrageous final destination for his remains, all the better.

With Sera around, his chances seem well above average.

“There were… monsters… and my brother, ‘e… is ‘e going to turn into one of those things?”

“No. No, he won’t.” Mostly because they’ll burn the body before anything has a chance to find its way inside, but Dorian can keep that to himself for now. “It will be all right.”

Even if they can’t save her brother, at least she’ll be safe now. No doubt offered a place in Skyhold, or whatever supplies or protection she might need to find her own way to safety. 

_If we can’t save the world, we’ll at least save who we can._ Thierry had said as they’d started out, and laughed. _Except, of course, we still have to save the world._

Dorian thought the girl was holding some sort of Chantry trinket, but when it falls from her hand and spills across the floor it takes a moment to realize what he’s looking at. Seeds, and Nicole swears softly and crouches down, gathering up each one with great care.

“I imagine there’s a story there.” He says, hoping to distract the girl from counting every single second that passes. Still no sign of the Inquisitor, but even with the lyrium he must be feeling the effects of so much spellwork by now. 

Dorian looks to Bull - who’s casually watching the far side of the room as if he barely cares. Whatever dark cloud Dorian thought he saw before, it may be brewing into a full-on storm. No one’s speaking directly to each other, but there are a considerable number of muttered remarks and half-aborted gestures, mostly in Julian’s direction. A lot of angry people trying to look like they’re not angry, a fierce argument they’re trying to pretend isn’t happening.

“My… family, we ‘ad an orchard, messere. Pear trees, and apples and plums. The best for miles around, everyone said so.” He sees her expression waver at the memory. It’s unlikely there’s any good questions to ask, anything but the stark reminder of what’s been lost and how little remains.

“Oh? I had a bit of a grove myself. Well, my family did.” Still does. The trees weren’t the ones who had to leave. For a moment, Dorian can practically feel the heat off the pale stone of the inner courtyard, the sound of the leaves rustling and the sweet, dusty scent of the air. A pretty, ornamental spot that his father was too busy for and his mother disdained for all the bugs that didn’t exist. He’d spent a good deal of time there by himself, just reading and thinking. During those last unpleasant days of confinement, he’d even found it easier to sleep there. “Lovely place, just a few trees for the kitchen. Oranges, limes - we had pineapples in the garden.”

Fresh pineapple. If only. When the next desire demon attacks as an eight-foot tall fruit cocktail, Dorian will be the one to blame. 

“Pine…apple?” 

How would she know? Thierry’s noble, and even he’d been able to provide the hour, place and reason for the last time he’d had an orange. Tevinter isn’t much for snow or virtue or honor, and the south continues to be an absolute wasteland of flavor. 

Now there’s a useful project, one the Inquisitor would likely approve of - a magically assisted greenhouse. A way to improve morale and showcase the good that mages can do _and_ give Dorian something worth pilfering from the kitchens for a change.

“Indeed.” He says, taking a small bag of his own from an inner pocket. Carefully charmed to protect from water and theft and bears, which is probably overdoing it. Slightly. He tips out the contents into his hand, the dried fruit in small fragments the deep color of precious jewels.

Back pay from the Ambassador, with apologies and assurances and the warm, easy solicitude that suggests she got away with _everything_ as a child. Josephine is still busy stretching each coin in three directions, and Dorian has wondered more than once just _who_ in the Inquisition is actually getting paid. Iron Bull must be, the entire point of being mercenary, and Sera has likely magpied half of Skyhold’s trinkets into that bower of hers, but Warden Blackwall still sleeps above the stables and there seems no sign that any of the inner circle have thought much beyond a warm meal and a sturdy roof - and there are rumors the Commander doesn’t even bother with that.

No doubt this particular bounty was intended for the Inquisitor. Thierry does accept some of the gifts he’s sent - swords, books, books about swords - but far more of them find their way into the Ambassador’s hands, redistributed among those in Skyhold.

So he’s being paid in fripperies. Second-hand fripperies, even. If Dorian had any intention of writing home, he’d lead with that.

The piece he hands her is the size and color of a gold coin, and likely worth just about as much here. It’s been a bit of a struggle, trying to make the bag last as long as he can. Dorian allows himself one piece in the evening, as a reward for not tearing his hair out at the thought of another night _outside_. Occasionally one in the morning, to make the prospect of waking up worthwhile. Maybe one in midday. Or two, if things are particularly unappealing. 

All right, so he’s not really the best at moderation. 

Nicole studies it quizzically, turning it over and over in her hands.

“It’s better fresh, but you’ll get the idea.”

Yes, she does, eyes instantly wide in astonishment with the first tentative bite, and then nibbling away so delicately that it seems unlikely she’ll ever actually finish. 

For a moment, it feels like Felix is sitting right next to him, that Dorian might just glance over and see him there, taking in this strange scene. Enjoying it, no doubt. When pressed, Dorian tends to retreat into script and performance - but Felix never had to. He just… lived. He had the knack for it. Felix would approve of this, though Dorian knows his friend would also feel the sick, quiet free fall of outrage - the girl deserved more than such terrible uncertainty, being batted carelessly between armies. All but doomed to join the shambling horde of undead she’d been so desperate to flee.

It cannot be _necessary_ , such a waste, a life worth nothing more in the final tally than a shrug and some inane comment about the way of things - and thinking so shouldn’t make him some sort of deluded idealist, the naive little rich boy refusing to face facts. 

It shouldn’t be a luxury to know how big the world is.

“Oi, piss off!”

An edge of real fear and anger in Sera’s voice, and Dorian’s up without thinking, staff half-pointed at the commotion near the table and it would be rather fitting if she managed to upstage a potential ambush with a fight of her own - but no one’s attacking, even with weapons drawn, all the men who were at the table now a good foot away and staring at the wisp that bobs at the center of the table like a tipsy candle flame.

Dorian knows better than to laugh, but he does anyway, earning him a few glances from the Orlesians and a vicious glare from Sera, still with an arrow nocked, her bow half-raised.

“Do come here,” he says, raising a hand toward the wisp. “You’re making a nuisance of yourself.”

A little tug of magic to get its attention, and the pale light happily wobbles his way, men tripping over chairs and each other to get out of its path. The Veil is absurdly thin here, and wisps are the first to find ways to slip across - he’s surprised it’s taken this long to see any. Dorian mostly knows how to banish them - distracting little things, and they like to creep in around the edges of any substantial casting, just to look and linger over burnt-out candles and empty vases and less interesting doorstops. One of his more persistent visitors spent the better part of an afternoon hovering in rapt fascination over half a cheese sandwich.

This one bobs and dances at his fingertips, before weaving a bit around the focus crystal on his staff. He hears Nicole inhale sharply, looks up to see her frozen and pale, pressed against the wall with her eyes fixed on the light as if it were a snake about to strike.

“It’s all right. It’s perfectly safe.” Dorian says, as gentle as he can. “It can’t hurt you. It wouldn’t even know how.”

The Inquisitor’s second objective, beyond that whole ‘saving the world’ bit, is the hope that those with magic will explain it to those who don’t, with the intent of making things better for everyone - more knowledge, less fear. Even if Dorian is a deluded idealist, he’s in good company.

Nicole watches him, and when it’s clear Dorian is not about to be attacked and that the ‘threat’ is indeed entirely ridiculous, she peels herself away from the wall, takes a hesitant step closer.

“I… I’ve seen them before, outside. What is it?”

“A wisp.” Dorian says, and very slowly extends his hand, the light dancing gently from his fingertips to hers. Nicole is barely breathing, but she looks more fascinated than afraid, slowly turning her wrist, the wisp gently following the motion, poised on her fingertips. “It’s just curious, that’s all. It’s not much of anything, really.”

“Right.” Sera calls from the table, where the men have grudgingly resettled themselves, though all eyes are still on him - on the wisp that has decided on a more thorough examination of Nicole’s boots, now perched on her toe as she lifts her foot into the air. She hasn’t stopped smiling. “You just keep all that ‘not much’ over there where it belongs then, yeah? Stupid glowy, floaty git.”

“Indulge me, Sera.” Dorian says. “In your travels across the land in search of fortune and glory, have you ever run into anyone less than… forthcoming?”

A scoff. “What’s coming, now?”

“Liars.” Dorian continues, undaunted. “Would you say you have much experience with liars? Grifters? Confidence men?”

“… yeah?” Sera says, preternaturally suspicious of anything that might be a learning experience. Dorian thinks he might have the attention of most in the room. Always a good feeling, that.

“So, when you have to do business with these unsavory types, I imagine you trust them immediately and happily hand over anything they ask for, while believing all their words at face value, yes?”

Definitely a learning experience, and she doesn’t like it if the stony silence is anything to go by.

“You know magic has rules, Sera. I can’t do anything I want.” Or the Inquisitor wouldn’t be taking so long in that other room. “All I’m saying is that if you spend your time fleeing from wisps, you’ll be exhausted by the time a real threat shows up. Whatever you want to believe, magic isn’t so different from the world you already know.”

“Right, ‘cause the world _I_ know’s just full to bursting with demons.” Sera makes a face, as she realizes that’s all too true.

“Maybe not all the time, but I did hear mention of certain events in Verchiel, and you seemed to handle yourself there well enough.”

“What, that rich tit?” Sera scoffs. “Yeah, but that’s people.”

“People with the power to kill you, if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Look, are you _trying_ to be more of a prick than usual - because the usual’s good enough.”

“I’m saying that there is an order to the magical world the same as any other, and once you understand it then even the worst sorts of demons can be… consider them a mix between a liar and a bear. Mind the claws, ignore the bullshit - you’re more than halfway to victory, or at least escaping with your skin still on. The power a demon wields over you depends a good deal on the power that you give it.”

“Except for Revenants.” Iron Bull says from behind him.

“Not helping.” Dorian snaps without turning back. “Look around you, Sera. Corypheus may be taking advantage of the chaos, but magic didn’t make this war.”

Maybe one sentence too far. He does have that unfortunate habit, and Dorian can feel the mood around them turn sullen and sour, a reminder no one needed.

“So what’s your problem with the Freemen, then?” One of the Orlesians says. “What’s so wrong with us taking our power back?”

“The so-called ‘Freemen’ are nothing more than puppets for their Venatori masters.” Dorian says. “Blood mages, and unfortunately those _are_ as bad as everything you’ve heard - or worse. They don’t have allies, or friends, or family - they have rivals and they have resources. If you’re not one, you may happily count yourself among the other.”

“How do you know so much about it?” A second voice, and before he can turn to answer he hears a reply from the far wall - Julian, his voice low and bitter well beyond his years.

“Idiot. He’s Tevinter, isn’t he? He’s _one of them _.”__

__He shouldn’t care. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard every day since crossing the border. The opinion of one more arguably literate Orlesian peasant - even a cave full of them - really doesn’t matter. For all Dorian knows they’re still going to have to fight their way out of here, and he might as well have said nothing at all. Or at least come up with some clever retort for such an obvious conclusion._ _

__He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t care._ _

__“Dorian.” Iron Bull says. “Hour’s up. Go check on the Inquisitor.”_ _

__If it’s not the first time he’s been called more than ‘Vint,’ or ‘mage,’ it’s the first that he remembers._ _

__—————————————————_ _

__“How are we looking, Inquisitor? Nearly done? Preferably before I start retching up any more warm and fuzzy feelings?”_ _

__Dorian keeps his voice soft, though it’s unlikely anything short of a sledgehammer could draw Thierry’s attention away from his work. The wounded young man is still with them - noticeably improved, the ragged edges of the worst of the wounds now smoothed together, no ugly shades of swelling or infection. If he’s not quite hale and hearty, then at least he’s been drawn back a few substantial paces from the brink of death._ _

__Of course, even that small victory has exhausted the Inquisitor. Dorian had wondered just how much the man knew of healing - Thierry never made mention of it before - and he’s not at all surprised the answer lies along the familiar spectrum of ‘shut up and do it anyway’. He’s pale, rivulets of sweat streaking down his face and every muscle trembling under a fragile stillness, some great, invisible weight precariously balanced above the low, steady glow of his hands. Dorian was right, the scattering of empty lyrium bottles around him are hardly going to make up for what he’s thrown into this._ _

__“Thierry?”_ _

__The Inquisitor doesn’t even blink, face fixed in concentration, eyes brilliant and pale with the reflected light. Dorian steps to his side, slides one hand slow and low on his back - a certain technique to it, sliding into another’s spellwork without shattering their concentration and yes, he could just as easily have touched his shoulder but why would he ever do that?_ _

__“ _Amatus_? Are you all right?” _ _

__Definitely the first time he’s ever said that aloud, though Dorian’s been thinking it for weeks. It doesn’t need to mean anything - he can make a joke of it, if he wants to, which would probably be the wisest course of action. Either way, the Inquisitor’s too preoccupied to notice._ _

_What an odd little coward you are, Dorian Pavus._

__In general, magic’s a bit like breathing - hold your breath too long, and pass out. Pour too much into a spell and it’s the same, at least for the basics. Of course, Dorian’s worked his way into spells that were more than happy to rip the life right out of him had he slipped - intricate group castings can be fun like that. It’s also one of the countless reasons blood magic is so dangerous, tending to ignore all those limits in favor of consuming anything it can._ _

__This particular effort is not about to do any lasting damage to the Inquisitor, but Dorian still reaches out to steady him, Thierry swaying rather alarmingly as the spell slips away. It’s impossible to keep him standing, but at least the Inquisitor doesn’t bash his head against the edge of the table as his legs buckle and he drops to the floor._ _

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” Thierry gasps out between great, shuddering breaths. “I forgot how it… ’s not like fighting at _all_..." 

__Dorian swirls a bit of water from his own pack into one of the empty lyrium bottles and passes it to the Inquisitor, who takes it with a clumsy, shaking hand, pressing his face to the cool glass in between swallows. Dorian reaches out, checks their lucky patient’s pulse - a little weak yet, perhaps not entirely out of danger._ _

__“Still alive.” Thierry says. “Needs more work.”_ _

__“I could say the same for you.” Dorian says, as the Inquisitor makes a valiant attempt to get back to his feet and goes exactly nowhere for his effort, though one arm does sling its way around Dorian’s legs, fingers hooking loosely in a loop that’s never served a better purpose._ _

__“‘M’ fine… only need a minute.”_ _

__“Just stay down there.”_ _

__A thumb taps thoughtfully against his leg, just above his boot. “Tempting, but I’m not sure now’s the time.”_ _

__Dorian kicks him, but gently, before turning his full attention to the slightly-less-dying man on the table. He closes his eyes, reaches out and focuses - it’s not so hard to find that thread of life, even quiet and frayed as it is, but there’s a difference between finding it and being able to do anything useful with the knowledge._ _

__He takes a deep breath, lets it out slow, tries to channel the energy where it ought to go - and there’s a few trickling drops before the spell collapses under its own weight. Dorian tries again - and again - and though he at least isn’t doing any further harm he also isn’t doing much good, any attempt to bridge the gap, to draw that life force into the magic he’s trying to give it all ends the same, the power slipping out of his grasp, directionless and refusing to follow his will._ _

__“You don’t usually have to work this hard, do you?” Thierry says, gently amused._ _

__It used to be the singular thrill of his life, listening to his father proudly list off the spells that Dorian had picked up on his own, all the times he never really had to be taught. Not quite a Somniari but damn close, and destined to raise the Pavus name higher than it had ever been._ _

__“Well,” the Inquisitor says, and with an effort carefully drags himself back to his feet, “it’s not like you can heal him to death. When do they teach this up north, anyway?”_ _

__Dorian makes a quiet, non-commital sound that slips into something like a growl as he pushes the magic just that little bit too far and once again it all falls to pieces._ _

__“If you’re expected to be no more than a healer, I imagine they start right away.”_ _

__“… so you’ve never really done this before? And now you’re just… going for it?” Thierry chuckles, though it isn’t unkind. “Maker, your teachers must have _loved_ you.”_ _

__He’d never been kicked out of any school _specifically_ for arguing with his instructors, though for the most part they weren’t sad to see him go. For the most part, Dorian hadn’t been sorry to leave, either. At some level the word ‘precocious’ was assuredly a synonym for ‘insufferable twat’ but Dorian was still easily the match for two thirds of his teachers and at least half of them had it coming. Probably._ _

__Dorian is partway through yet another failure when the Inquisitor’s hands slide gently over his own, and at least this time it’s not his fault when the spell stutters out._ _

__“Sorry.” Thierry says softly, hip bumping against his. It’s a bit crowded, the two of them standing nearly on top of each other, not that Dorian’s complaining. “I’m sure this is all some unforgivable insult in Tevinter, but it’s not the sort of thing I can help with at a distance.”_ _

__Dorian hasn’t had _literal_ hands-on training since he was brand new to his magic, and barely even then. _ _

__Born for victory. Right up until the day he wasn’t._ _

__“Are you sure you’re up to…”_ _

__Thierry chuckles. “Oh, you’re going to be doing all the work. I’m just here to supervise.”_ _

__He has wondered - all right, fantasized - what it would be like casting with the Inquisitor. Oh, of course he already knows what it’s like in battle, but there’s a world of difference between that and this. The luxury of a little time now, to notice each subtle change, to focus on the spellwork instead of whatever it is that’s trying to kill them. Dorian’s magic is a quicksilver thing, thinking fast and reacting faster and woe to anyone who can’t keep up._ _

__It’s no real shock to find the Inquisitor’s power is as solid and sturdy as the ground beneath his feet. No surprises, nothing flashy - just dependable, and calm and Dorian absolutely refuses to go off on any poetic tangents about anchors or harbors, refuses to think about other spells, more interesting possibilities that could benefit from such a steadfast foundation. Instead, he calls the spell up again - and pauses, frowning slightly as he feels Thierry’s magic pull against his own intentions, holding him back as he tries again to bridge the gap between spell and patient._ _

__“Try not to push so hard. Healing isn’t like other magic, it doesn’t always want to work on your terms.” It’s not easy to keep the spell together, a bit like holding a pail full of water at arm’s length - and then Dorian feels it, the slightest, tentative pull from the other side, and even as he thinks it the power wavers wildly, sloshing - Thierry drops a hand to prop himself up against the table but somehow it all still holds together._ _

__“You’re just the conduit.” The Inquisitor says. “It’s not about control, not really. It’s mostly about trying to stay out of the way.”_ _

__“There must be an easier solution than this.” Dorian says through clenched teeth, the constant, minuscule shifts to keep the power balanced and flowing promising to turn into a headache in short order. All of it going against most everything he knows on how to weave a spell, but it is paying off. Excruciatingly slowly, but that’s still progress._ _

__“Probably. But I’ve heard it said the best healers are born, not made. At least, that’s the excuse I’m using.”_ _

__Dorian smirks. “So, is this how you were trained?”_ _

__“As much as I could ever manage. My poor performance is entirely on me, I assure you. My teacher was… she worked the real miracles.”_ _

__A bittersweet sentiment, Dorian can practically feel the sadness in it through the magic but the Inquisitor doesn’t explain further - perhaps one more lost at the Conclave? Either way, the healing is enough to keep both of them occupied, Dorian trying to get a feel for the energy, to improve the spell even as he’s casting it and relying on Thierry to keep it stable, which he does. It’s functional, but hardly more than that._ _

__A good, steady casting can do a number on one’s sense of time, Dorian doesn’t know exactly how long they stand there, though it can’t be much more than another half-hour before he’s satisfied their patient will be staying on this side of the Veil for the foreseeable future, and both he and the Inquisitor have been reduced to bleary, shaking heaps on the floor._ _

__“And there you have it.” Thierry gestures grandly, or as grand as his weariness will allow. “Two of Thedas’ finest mages barely managing to save a single person. They’ll tell tales of us, just you watch.”_ _

__“You might want to consider leading something hastily organized and fated to implode.”_ _

__The Inquisitor looks happy, even drained as he is. He wanted this so badly, and Dorian’s glad that something useful came out of all this nonsense - a girl wanted a miracle and he helped make it happen. It doesn’t matter if anyone cares, it doesn’t matter what Nicole thinks of him or if she now believes everything he’d said had been a lie, because he comes from the Imperium and therefore everything he says and does is at the best self-serving and at the worst, poisonous._ _

__“If you hadn’t met me, would you have cared at all if Tevinter just sank into the sea?”_ _

__The Inquisitor just stares, confused, but Dorian doesn’t really need him to answer._ _

__The Imperium thinks itself so clever, believes all of this is at a distance, far beneath them and of no great consequence. Just like the mages here never thought they’d be free, just like no one in that impossible future thought they’d see the sky split in two - but that all happened, didn’t it? Imagine it, if the mages here gain real power, real stability. Imagine if Orlais decides to focus its attention away from its own infighting toward that little Exalted March they’d never had the time for - and a new target, with the Venatori ignoring all rules of propriety, practically begging for retaliation._ _

__All this time, the certainty that Thedas needs them, that if nothing else they’re the most necessary of evils, holding fast against a Qunari incursion - but look at Iron Bull. They love him in Skyhold, and not just in the vicinity of the tavern. Dorian wonders if the Qunari have any idea the sort of groundwork Iron Bull does for their cause, just by being unassuming, by being _nice_. No one trusts the Tevinter mage - it’s just safer not to - but Bull is everyone’s friend, and if a man like that can come from the Qun, how bad can it truly be? Can Dorian sit here and say Nicole is unquestionably better off with the freedom to starve and die whenever men with power want more? The Qun would at least give her back her orchard, and let her live without fear._ _

__Consider the alliance, then - the Qunari and the rest of the Thedas rising up against the Imperium, to put them all down like mad dogs. If anything could bring them together, even temporarily… Think of Seheron, and, what…. lyrium-fueled Qunari Templars? Oh, there’s an idea. Why not? The Qunari do love their expedient sacrifices for necessary goals. The final, mutual consensus that whatever problems may lie ahead, whatever wars and conquests are to be had, all of Thedas really would be better off if Tevinter just wasn’t there anymore._ _

__“Dorian?” The Inquisitor’s hand against his cheek, and he leans into it because he can never help himself, and wonders how he’s going to ruin this man’s life without ever meaning to. “Did something happen?”__

Thankfully, a groan from the table interrupts his answer, their patient tilting his head up just far enough to regard them with weary confusion. 

__“… and zen zee 'erald of Andraste,” Dorian murmurs, in the worst accent he can manage, “’e brought zee dead back to life!”_ _

__“So help me, Pavus, don’t you even _start_ …”_ _

__The both of them are at their weakest now, so of course that’s when the shouting starts from the other end of the cave, and the Inquisitor is on his feet with Dorian a half step behind - illusions, it’ll have to be spare illusions until he gets his mana back, and perhaps a few spirits of fear that will render every word in his pretty speech null and void. So it’s a good thing nobody believed him in the first place._ _

__“You go low, I’ll go high.” Thierry says. “Keep them off Bull for as long as you can.”_ _

__Whatever Iron Bull might be, he’s also their best shot for getting through this. Hopefully Sera’s taken cover, or knows enough to fall back to where they can keep an eye on her - and Dorian’s got his staff up, ready to take down the first of whoever’s in the way, to fight his way out of this cave or… make sure nobody leaves._ _

__What he’s not expecting is the squad of the Grand Duke’s soldiers, with a Chevalier at their head, his highly polished armor reflecting the frozen, horrified expressions on the rest of those in the cave. The soldiers shove a badly beaten man ahead of them, who staggers for a few paces before collapsing to the floor._ _

__“Now,” the Chevalier says, with a voice equal parts disdain and satisfaction, “for rest of you deserters.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Wow, that is a… lot of kudos. Thanks, everybody. I'm not great at replying to comments, but I do read them and appreciate them all.
> 
> 2\. Thank you, betas! This chapter would not have been readable without you! And if it still isn’t, that is entirely my fault!
> 
> 3\. Maybe the next one won’t be six thousand words (?!) and mostly just rambling and there will be an explosion or… something?


	18. Chapter 18

Dorian almost feels a pang of sympathy for the Chevalier, when he catches sight of the Inquisition among his prey. It's hard to imagine the circumstances where they make anything like sense.

_A Fereldan elf, a Qunari spy, a Tevinter mage and the Inquisitor walk into a war…_

"I wasn't aware the Grand Duke had shifted his troops this far ahead." Thierry says, stepping forward in full Inquisitor mode. Calm and collected, as if he'd set up this meeting and the Duke's men have arrived just on time. No one else moves, and whatever the Chevalier thinks, it's all well hidden behind an intricately etched faceplate.

_Cheater._

"Inquisitor Trevelyan, at your service." Thierry tips his head just enough to be polite, although there's still enough space to cast before any of the soldiers could close the distance. If the Inquisitor has any mana left, which Dorian certainly doesn't.

The Chevalier does not offer his name.

"So… _you're_ what the Maker saw fit to send us? The 'erald of Andraste'?"

It can't be easy to sound so condescending through that much steel, but he is Orlesian, and makes the extra effort. It must take some poor servant ages get the blood out of all the fine details in his armor, although this could be his set for those special occasions of peasant slaughtering.

"I 'eard there was some success in retaking the Ramparts. It seems a fair enough business, you mages killing each other." The Chevalier glances down to the man at his feet. "It seems you owe us a debt, Inquisitor. We caught this filth on 'is way to sell you out to the Venatori." He tips his head just slightly, to take in the rest of the room. "A disgrace to all Orlais."

Dorian wonders exactly when the decision had been made to betray the Herald. It must have happened before they arrived, a scrambling dash out some hidden back passage even as they were on their way in. Now it all makes sense, the rising tension, the quiet arguments he kept catching from the corner of his eye. Julian had obviously been the one to make that call, before he'd even seen them - before the Herald had offered his help, and Iron Bull had been quietly intimidating while Sera told tales of everything they'd murdered their way through so far.

What he'd seen, then, had been panic slowly filling the room, a growing desperation - what would they do, if the Inquisition discovered their betrayal before the Venatori arrived? If the Venatori arrived, and didn't win?

Or this - the Grand Duke's army discovering them at last, bringing along every reason for the Inquisition to step aside, to walk away.

For his part, Julian shows an admirable stoicism, utterly expressionless as fate sharpens the axe. Dorian glances through the crowd, finds Nicole as pale and terrified as the rest of them - and he gives her a wink and what he hopes is a comforting grin, because he's fairly sure how this is going to go.

"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding." The Inquisitor says. "It seems you've just interrogated one of my forward scouts."

Yes, that will do nicely.

" _Scout_?" If he wasn't wearing a helmet, the Chevalier would probably spit.

The Inquisitor nods, perfectly calm. "We've been attempting to flush out the Venatori for some time, and these men agreed to help us."

The Chevalier finally takes a step forward. "These _cowards_ fled the field of battle. I am under orders to see them all hanged."

A few soldiers' hands find their swords, as Iron Bull moves slightly, doing whatever it is he does that suddenly fills up twice as much space. Sera, to her credit, hasn't raised her bow, but Dorian can see her fingers twitch - there's a flask tucked away in some hidden pocket, just waiting to fly.

"You must be mistaken, messere." Thierry says, and he claims he can't control the Anchor very well but it does choose that moment to spark up, a glint of green reflecting off Orlesian armor and a few of them shift nervously at the sight. "As I told you, these people are with the Inquisition now."

"You don't have the _right_." The Chevalier snarls. "None of this is your concern."

"The Venatori are everyone's concern, and the Inquisition will do what it takes to keep them from killing any more of your soldiers. I do appreciate your interest in my safety. I hope you weren't greatly inconvenienced."

It's a blatant dismissal, on top of a pile of even more blatant lies, and everyone here knows it. The question is, does this Chevalier really feel like drawing steel and facing the Inquisition - the Herald himself - over a handful of ragged deserters?

For one tense moment, Dorian thinks the man will attack anyway, if only out of slighted pride - but finally the Chevalier lets out a low, disgusted growl, as if this was never worth his time.

"The Grand Duke will hear of this. You've made a dangerous enemy, Inquisitor."

The threat sounds good enough, though there's no real teeth in it, nothing left for him to do now but turn on his heel with his men following him out. No one moves or makes a sound, even after the last clink of armor has faded.

"Bull," the Inquisitor says, "you have any spare elfroot?"

The Qunari tosses him the flask, and a few moments later Thierry is across the room and kneeling down, helping the battered man at his feet sit up, making sure he can hold the bottle enough to drink. Dorian keeps his guard up, though most of the villagers seem too stunned to move, and every gaze he meets quickly drops to the floor.

"Anton!"

Nicole cries out, because there her brother is, propped in the doorway of the sick room. Pale and scarred but very much alive. One heartfelt and touching reunion, as promised, and the rest of the room slowly stirs to life. Whispers that grow louder and most of them to the same, familiar end - _Herald, savior, Maker's own mercy, Andraste be praised_ \- as Julian steps forward, looking like a man about to put his head on the block.

"I was the one who sold you out. All of it was my idea, 'erald. Your Grace." He gestures toward the man on the floor. "'e didn't even want to. I forced him into it. It was my decision, alone."

The Inquisitor nods, and sighs, as Julian swallows hard, bracing himself for the consequences.

"You might want to find a new place to stay if you can, or join up with one of our camps." Thierry says, turning toward the rest of the villagers. "You have the Inquisition's protection, but obviously that has its limits. I don't imagine many of you want to make the trek to Skyhold, but you would be welcome there. We'll try to get some more supplies out, while we keep closing Rifts. Check in with us, get some food, and we can tell you where it's safe."

He takes in the room with a long look. "The Divine gave her life working to protect all of you. It was her will that all Orlais would be peaceful again. Don't give up hope."

The Inquisitor turns away, and with no further fanfare they are back out of the cave and into the night.

\---------------------------------

Closer to morning, actually, a certain hue to the still-dark sky that Dorian recognizes quite well from a life spent staggering home hours later than any sensible man. He has no idea where they are, but it's hardly a surprise when Iron Bull takes point, moving with a calm certainty, and before long Dorian catches sight of an Inquisition scout in the distance, marking their approach. The night air is crisp and clean, waking him up a bit, and quiet enough that it seems they might return to camp without any further troubles.

"Well, I suppose that could have gone worse." Thierry says, and now that they're alone he's stumbling a bit, leaning heavily on his staff. "Was the speech stupid? It seemed like they wanted a speech."

Bull snorts. "I doubt they heard much past 'I'm not going to feed you to Gaspard's army or eat you myself.'"

"Arse biscuit." Sera mutters, and Dorian wonders if she means the Chevalier, or Julian, or both.

All of them stop at the sound of the first snapped branch behind them - deliberately loud, footsteps hurrying to reach them - and a rustle in the bushes, and then Julian is there, staring at the Inquisitor.

"What is it?" Thierry says. "What's happened?"

"Why did you do that?" He ought to be a bit more grateful, or maybe Orlesian gratitude always sounds like anger. "Why didn't you turn us over to the Grand Duke? We're nothing to you."

"Well, I did spend all that time putting your friend back together." Thierry says. "It seemed a bit counterproductive."

"I betrayed you." The boy looks considerably younger when he stops pretending not to care. "I betrayed the _Herald of Andraste_."

The Inquisitor shrugs. "I think you had your choice of bad options. Luckily, it seems like it all worked out. I won't tell the Maker if you don't."

Dorian's seen that look on Julian's face before - confusion, suspicion, not understanding the rules the Inquisitor wants to play by. Still certain of the lie, of the catch that isn't there.

"So, what now? You're just… leaving?"

"There's not much more we can do here tonight." The Inquisitor says. "If you want, you could come take a look at our maps later, show us anything we may have missed. I'm sure you know this area better than we do."

Julian studies him for a long, quiet moment.

"… what 'appens if they win?"

The Inquisitor smiles grimly.

"If they win, then Celene is dead, and Gaspard is dead, and every man, woman and child in Orlais is dead - and then Ferelden, and Tevinter, and the world. The Venatori win, and then they lose right along with the rest of us. No one survives if we fail."

It must sound mad, to anyone who hadn't been there, but the simple, flat certainty in the Inquisitor's voice sells it well enough. He doesn't have the luxury in caring if other people believe or not - it won't change the truth. Corypheus has thrown down a very generous gauntlet, in a way. It makes all of this easy - no negotiation, no half measures or backup plans or concessions they can live with. Victory or death.

Dorian certainly cuts a fine form with his back to the wall.

Julian scowls, weighing his options carefully as he looks down to the ground and then back up at the Inquisitor.

"I 'ave known Anton my whole life, 'e is a brother to me. The Freemen 'ad mages, and I went to them, told them I would do anything if they would 'elp." His hands clench into fists. "They laughed at me. You want the Venatori? I know where they are."'

\-----------------------------

So here they are, nearly a full day later and marching up into the hills, along narrow paths and switchbacks Julian claims even the Freemen don't bother with. Trails for the locals, the sort of thing the Venatori might consider defending if they ever bothered to ask about them.

Which means they're perfectly safe. Of course, there is the lingering question of Julian's trustworthiness, though a double-doublecross at this point seems a bit too convoluted even by Tevinter standards, and Dorian had fallen into his bedroll to the sound of Sera explaining in clear and pointy detail just what would happen if he _did_ try to sell them out again, and what Iron Bull would do with any bits she left over.

He's fairly certain arrows don't work like that, but Julian seemed to get the idea.

It's good to be up and moving, even with a low mist blanketing wide swaths of the countryside late in the day, lowering their visibility and giving the land an extra nudge into the unnerving. Dorian still feels a bit like he's pulled a muscle in his head somewhere, but fortunately there are lyrium potions to bridge any lingering gaps, and nothing is quite as invigorating as the promise of righteous revenge.

A good deal of the scouts have been organized to join them for this hunt, and it's been a single file march for the better part of an hour, but as they descend into another gap and the path widens, the Inquisitor is there at his side.

"Fully recovered?"

"Of course." Dorian says. "I can't say I'd mind a _bit_ more commiseration. You smile too much. We sleep _on the ground_."

"Just how many spells does it take to keep your hair looking that perfect out here?"

Two spells. A little under seven minutes. After the Hinterlands, he's got it down to an art form.

"Inquisitor," he sighs, "we're on the way to murder my countrymen. It would be rude of me to do any less."

Thierry looks off toward the horizon. "Harding says all Julian's information is good, as far as the scouts can tell, but there have been rumors flying since we took the ramparts. It seems the Freemen are already retreating, now that the dead aren't on their side. The Venatori could have gone ahead."

"Possibly." Dorian says. "Though Corypheus doesn't seem the type to forgive a retreat, no matter how strategic."

"Any idea just whose day we're about to ruin?"

"No one of consequence." It's entirely childish, that he wishes he didn't know at all. Dorian would rather the Venatori die as unknown and unlamented as every other body on this battlefield. "I believe his name is Priscus. Alexius' first link to the Venatori, the one to bring him into the fold."

The man who saw a scholar, a great mind brought low, crushed by his grief, and pushed him even lower, right off the edge. They'd used Alexius, but from what Dorian can tell, not a single one of them had ever truly believed in his work - perhaps Corypheus, which is an unnerving sort of compliment. Years of Dorian's life, the very best he had to give twisted by incurious incompetents into a blunt instrument for conquest, and the moment Redcliffe had failed them they'd tossed even that away.

Yes, that is certainly worth a few pounds of flesh. 

"It… ah," Thierry ducks his head, his voice going low. "I suppose this isn't really the time, but it was… good. Casting with you. I don't usually… it was very good."

So funny, the things that embarrass the Inquisitor, that he finds difficult to say. As if Dorian doesn't want to smile at the memory of the those hands on his own. The oversight seems rather obvious now, attempting to study healing magic without anyone to be healed, as if the patient wasn't an integral part of the process. At least he can spend the trip back to Skyhold trying to work out the most convincing case for why they ought to let a necromancer putter about the infirmary.

"Of course it was." Dorian says. "We should try it again sometime."

Thierry smirks. "Is it sad that I almost hope that wasn't a euphemism?"

"A bit sad." Dorian says. "We're clever people, Inquisitor. Why not both?" Who knows, next time they might even venture into the less passive magics. If Dorian's truly clever, he could convince the Anchor to get involved. It was surprisingly quiescent during their time in the caves, although that had been for the best. No bonuses granted for healing the patient's head off.

"Maybe we could give time magic a try? Might prove useful."

Dorian chuckles. "Jumping right into the deep end, are we? Greedy thing. You'd have me surrender all my secrets to questionably trained foreign mages? I'd be laughed right out of my Circle, if they hadn't long given me up for dead."

"Fancy Tevinter mage doesn't feel like sharing? Surprise." Thierry sighs. "I suppose I'll just have to make do with ' _amatus_.'"

Damn and double damn. How did he even…

"Inquisitor!" It's nice of them to keep the war going, to interrupt all these potentially awkward moments. Unfortunately, what the scouts have discovered is hardly worth celebrating.

The roughly flayed bodies of the halla are stacked like cordwood, in a pile that comes nearly up to his waist. A literal slippery slope, if Dorian wants to be vulgar about it, a few fragments of white still visible amidst a thousand shades of drying blood and the thick, droning carpet of flies. Mercifully, there are no human or elven bodies on this particular pile of corpses, the familiar consequence of magical experimentation without a steady lyrium supply - blood magic. The Inquisitor makes a soft, pained sound, as if struck without warning. It isn't the worst they've seen here, probably not the worst they'll see _today_ but there's something terrible in the indifference of it, beauty stripped down to temporary power and bloody bones.

_Rivals and resources, and nothing more. Nothing more in the whole of the world._

Maker, but he wants this over with. Dorian just wants the Venatori dead and gone before any of the boasting, the sneering or the tedious threats. It's tiresome, the Inquisitor seeing nothing but the worst of Tevinter, with every new discovery somehow uglier than the last.

At this point, he may as well make a checklist of what he expects to see, when they arrive at the clearing at the end of the narrow valley. The Inquisitor sends the scouts off in pairs to circle the perimeter, putting a hand over the Anchor as it flickers, a polite warning for the Rift that will apparently be their backdrop in the upcoming fight.

Dead Freemen? Check. Either double-crossed by the Venatori, or foiled in the middle of their own attempt. Or perhaps just an argument that escalated, with no one interested in keeping a cool head - it does get complicated when everyone involved is an absolute bastard. Dorian can see the bodies from where they stand, perhaps two dozen in too poor a condition to even be of interest to the spirits. Not that there are any spirits nearby, because -

Demons? Check. A dozen, at least. All Pride. All a bit larger than average, standing in a loose half-circle around -

The Venatori agent. Check. And… his hostage. Check. An elven girl in a tattered shift. The last of his slaves, most likely, with raw, red scars criss-crossing her arms from wrist to well above the elbow, just for that added touch of vulgarity, because -

Blood magic? Oh yes, check and mate. Dorian can practically see it writhing in the air, a sour, stinging burn in the back of his throat. No doubt what is keeping all of those demons in line, and the Inquisitor mouths the words at him - 'demon army?'- but of course, that can't be whatever this is. One man would never be able to-

All that magic suddenly goes taut, as the Venatori agent lifts a hand and the girl curls over with a half-muffled cry and another five, six - eight Pride demons come pouring out of the Rift. Fishing. He's going _fishing_ somehow, the spirits he yanks through the Rift twisted into demons on the way down, and it still isn't an army but that's not particularly comforting.

Julian has a hand pressed hard to his mouth, stifling whatever panicked sound wants to come out, though give some credit to Orlesian pride - it seems he's standing his ground more than being frozen to the spot.

"Well," Iron Bull mutters, in his usual nonplussed tone. "Fuck _that_."

"Oh, but it's no big deal, right? 'S just like bears, _right_?" Sera hisses, glaring at him.

"Are you honestly telling me that would be _better_?" Dorian snaps back.

"You know," The Inquisitor murmurs, looking for what they're all looking for, any plan of attack. "One of these days we'll end up fighting a demon _inside_ a bear and then-"

A shout in the distance - one of the scouts - and then another shout from the opposite edge of the clearing and before Dorian can even think about what it might mean he is slammed to the ground, a great, spiked weight coming down hard on his back.

Dorian manages to roll with the blow, rewarded with the view of a maw full of sharp teeth just before Iron Bull cleaves away half the beast's head, a great upsweep with his axe that he hears crunch right into the brain. Dorian braces himself for the geyser of blood he's about to be drenched in, but there's only a few taps against his clothes instead - the droplets turned to ice, the Inquisitor's spell nearly as fast as Bull's attack, the frozen corpse already toppling to the side where it breaks into several more large chunks. 

As he's rising to his feet, hand closing around his own staff, Dorian hears the growl.

Wyverns. The demons are inside the wyverns.

\----------------------------

" _Merde_." Julian hisses, trying to look in five directions at once. A wyvern for each of them, stalking forward, slinking off the rocky hills with a feline grace, their claws scrabbling against the stones. " _Merde merde merde merde **merde**_. "

"Stay calm. It'll be all right." The Inquisitor says, keeping him at the center of their little circle as they're pushed ahead into the clearing. A few more cries come from behind the hills, who knows how many more wyverns now facing off against the scouts.

"My goodness. If it isn't the prodigal Pavus himself!"

Dorian only saw Priscus the once, at a distance outside Redcliffe, but he'd been Alexius' age at least. The Venatori agent before him is young, even younger than Dorian - or he had been once. Power has aged him dramatically, his skin a loose and tattered mask over the face that ought to be there. He looks sickly and unshaven, one of his eyes oddly bloodshot, all the vessels blown but still with a manic gleam, his mouth fixed in a rictus grin. Drunk off the power he's been wielding, and too far gone to know it.

"… and who is this you've brought for me? The 'Herald of Andraste,' in the flesh!" Dorian feels a chill slide through him at the raw, covetous desire in the Venatori's eyes when they fix on the Anchor. "So, you're what passes for a mage down here? It appears you still have most of your teeth - Servis owes me twenty silvers."

Dorian can see a shape in the grass between them - he'd mistaken it for a large stone at first, charred by fire, but stones don't have femurs poking out at odd angles, or wear the remnants of black robes.

"… I assume that would be Priscus, then?"

"The best he's looked in weeks. Quieter, too." The Venatori says, and chuckles. "He thought he had a brilliant idea to harness the power of the Rift, and bring this patch of blighted nothing back under our control. I'm _fairly_ sure that wasn't it." His tone is easy, conversational. He thinks he has all the time in the world, reaching out lazily to give one of his 'pets' an indulgent scratch. "I hear you had some fun with Drusus on the ramparts? I can't imagine it took him long to die."

"Can you get me to the Rift?" Dorian hears the Inquisitor murmur, and Iron Bull mutter back in the negative, not with all those wyverns in the way. Sera is silent, bow nocked and ready but she's wide-eyed with fear - too many demons. Far too many. Dorian can't imagine what difference closing the Rift could make - even with it gone they're still facing rather ugly odds.

"So… elves and Qunari, is it?" The Venatori continues to gloat, relishing the opportunity and the audience. "Quite the organization you've joined up with, Pavus. They must be putting you to excellent use. Remind me again, what was it you were so famous for? Double major in necromancy and fellatio?"

"The necromancy's more of a hobby, really." Dorian says. "This is all… what, then? Your grand plan to retake the battlefield?"

"It certainly is amusing, watching the peasants scatter." The Venatori casts a disturbingly fond look over his shoulder, to where the Pride demons are all champing at the invisible bit, waiting to be unleashed.

If Dorian could sever that connection, somehow, that tiny bit of control - well, then they'd have one dead Venatori and a field full of rampaging demons. A swift retreat is starting to seem like the best option, though he imagines wyverns can run a bit faster than they can.

All in all, this is not one of the Inquisition's better ambushes.

"Of course, this is my real victory." The Venatori gestures to the Rift above. "Corypheus wants control over the Rifts, and I'm going to return it to him. I've already figured out how to make this one work for me _and_ show up that rat bastard Erimond. All the demons, none of the middlemen."

"It's all very… adequate, I suppose." Dorian says. "Throw enough blood magic against the wall and something's bound to stick."

"Alexius always said you were an absolute bitch about technique," he says, chuckling at Dorian's surprise. "What, who do you think had to pick up the slack after you wandered off? Priscus 'delegated' everything he could - I'm the one who ended up doing all the real work. Getting him what he needed, listening to him blather on, tracking down the fucking Tranquil. Not that he ever had a word of gratitude, mind. No matter what I did, it seems I couldn't hold a candle to _Dorian fucking Pavus_."

… and this is what Dorian ran away from, and left Felix to face alone. _You didn't know. You never thought he'd live long enough for it to matter._ Which doesn't actually make it better, and the fact that Felix is dead now and any further guilt is pointless… Maker, but humans can be such unnecessarily untidy things.

"He warned us you wouldn't join up, you know. Right from the start, he said you were too proud." The Venatori agent says, with an air of approval that Dorian does not want to hear. "I understand. I really do. If I were an Altus, I wouldn't give a shit about us either. When I'm a Magister, I'm not going to give a shit about anything."

Dorian wonders if it's ever occurred to _any_ of the Venatori that Corypheus had seemed rather eager to squander their supposedly glorious golden age of empire. He's read and re-read what the Inquisitor told them, what the former Magister had said at Haven - it hadn't been ambition that drove him, but desperation. He was afraid.

"You're… marginally smarter than this. You can't honestly believe Corypheus is some sort of god. That he cares if any of you succeed." Dorian says. "He's using you. He's using all of you."

"Of _course_ he is." The agent says. "If he wasn't, I wouldn't believe him. But don't worry, Pavus, there are contingencies in place for… later. Once the Elder One has done his job and cleared the board for us."

Time magic is their best chance for getting out of this - and yes, he is going to keep relying on what still hasn't been properly tested - but it doesn't look like there's much of a choice, and the spell ought to play nice with the Rift, if he takes a bit of care with the casting. Alexius' notes in that unraveled future seemed to suggest as much.

"Ah yes, the last-minute betrayal." Dorian says, reaching for the Veil, for power, though it's difficult to feel anything past the haze of blood magic. It's blocking him, or trying to. "I'm sure he'd _never_ expect that. A shame you won't be there to see it."

"Was that a threat?" The Venatori agent laughs, louder than the moment deserves, not entirely in control. "Please, do continue. So many people want you dead, you know? I'm beginning to understand why."

"You can't feel your fingertips anymore, can you?"

The Venatori freezes, fingers stuttering to a halt where he'd been chafing them against each other, probably without even noticing - and he really is terribly young. Of course, Dorian's watched young mages destroy themselves in a spectacular fashion all his life - if he'd been nudged a bit harder at the right age, if his inclinations had better matched to the ambitions set out for him - he might very well have been one of them.

"It's not the cold. It's the blood magic. Use too much without the proper precautions, or for too long - it deadens the nerves, erodes the links between body and mind. I read a paper about it, once."

Even in its most moral applications, Dorian has always considered blood magic to be akin to a highly corrosive chemical, the sort of brutal acids the dwarves will employ now and then in their forging. Potentially useful, and certainly powerful, but very difficult to control with any sort of confidence - and the more of it there is, the less a man is likely to care about being safe. A good shot of blood magic is like a good bottle of wine - a power that whispers at omnipotence, at reckless invulnerability, while making a man ignore how well it lies.

"Is that really the best you've got?" The Venatori says.

"Any headaches? Trouble with your vision - flickers, flashes of light? The occasional muscle spasm?" Dorian tsks. "Let me guess, you picked right up where Priscus left off - better than letting all that power he'd built up leach away. So you were using his framework to cast with, not your own. I'm sure you told yourself you'd go back later, make sure everything lined up in the proper order - rebuild the foundation while you're tacking rooms onto the roof? How's that been working out for you?"

"I'm not an abomination, you idiot." The Venatori sneers. "The spell is solid."

"It doesn't matter what the spell is, or how many people you kill to keep it going. It doesn't _matter_ if you have the demons under control. The magic's more powerful than you are now, more than any mage can hold on to for long - and bit-by-bit, it's breaking you down."

"Well, if that's the case," the Venatori says, all smug amusement - not believing him, or still thinking he can find a way out, "then I suppose I'd better get on with it."

He has the elf on her feet and at his side in a heartbeat, the blade held fast beneath her throat, tight enough that Dorian can already see the first beads of blood slipping free. The girl doesn't make a sound, or even blink, already in a place past caring.

"You see, I know a few things about the 'Herald of Andraste'." The Venatori says. "I've been paying attention. You like to think you can lead men and win wars without making any sacrifices. You're _weak_ , and our illustrious Lord Pavus has been quite remiss in showing you the dangers of weakness - but I am kind enough to correct that. Now, Inquisitor, you're going to drop your weapon and come over here, or I'm going to slit her throat."

Dorian tenses, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Bull shift as well, ready to strike. It's not like he wants to let the Venatori sacrifice one more life to this madness, but there's no chance the Inquisitor -

The Inquisitor is smiling. It's all in his eyes, something calm and furious, pitying and deeply amused all at once. A private joke that none of them are in on - and he opens his hand and lets his staff fall to the ground, eyes flicking over to Dorian's, the words as clear as if he'd said them aloud. 

_Trust me._

"Your friends, too. I want them all unarmed."

Dorian can see Bull hesitate. It's an effort to let go of his own staff, and as he hears Bull's axe hit the ground Dorian wonders how many hidden weapons he still keeps within reach. He wonders if Harding is out there watching, if any of the scouts are waiting for their chance - one good arrow that the Venatori doesn't see coming, it might still be enough -

"Right." Thierry says, arms spread, hands open. "A fair trade. So, now you can let her go."

"Not just yet." The Venatori needs to draw this out, of course, the part he's been looking forward to all along. The only point of any of this, to be the one in control, to savor it. "Come here."

"No." Dorian says, before he can stop himself, but the Inquisitor steps away, moving steadily toward danger and demons and the Rift glittering overhead. Dorian counts each step, measuring the distance before he'll have to act - he has enough magic now to try. Best case scenario, he can slow time long enough for a retreat, a chance to split the demons and wyverns into smaller groups in the hills, a manageable danger. The worst case? He freezes the Inquisition, the Venatori and a good fifty meters of Orlesian countryside into a permanent diorama of How Not To Magic.

At least his hair will be worthy of a place in eternity.

The Inquisitor asked for his trust, though, and so Dorian will let this play out for at least five more steps. Four. Three.

"Before I let these creatures gut your little army while you watch, I would love to see that trick of yours." The Venatori agent makes a gesture skyward.

The Inquisitor looks stunned. "You _want_ me to close the Rift?"

The agent must think he has enough demons to finish them off. If he's thinking much at all anymore.

"If you would be so kind."

Thierry murmurs something, too low to carry but Dorian has made a habit of catching secrets from across crowded rooms and it looks rather like - _cannot possibly be this fucking stupid_. He raises the hand with the Anchor high, and there's that familiar thrum and crackle, the pull on the Veil like a rising wind, a great tide slowly reversing itself.

"All right, but pay attention." Thierry says. "I'm only going to show you the once."

Dorian prepares to strike, just as soon as the Rift -

The Rift _explodes_.

The greater mass of demons are dragged screaming back through the Veil in an instant, as Dorian's body turns to fire under glass. It's an… interesting feeling, and he can only try to breathe with it, watching vast electric arcs dance around the Rift, the wyverns twisted and charred and dead before they hit the ground. He's never felt so much power go this wild this fast, roaring through every remaining trace of blood magic like a match to Qunari blackpowder.

The Venatori doesn't move or make a sound, simply tears apart in five directions with a great, wet ripping sound and the thud of falling pieces, one after another as the Rift closes, and the world goes still. Dorian shivers in the aftermath, a few stray sparks leaping from his fingertips into the crackling air.

At the epicenter, the Inquisitor rises slowly to his feet, where he'd been crouching over the elven girl, shielding her from the blast. He looks back at them, and the humor is gone and the anger is gone - all that's left in his eyes is bleak and lost. He's looking at Iron Bull, who's recovered his axe and now holds it half-raised, even though there's nothing between him and the Inquisitor but scorched stone and silence.

"… could have killed me." Julian whispers, but it carries in the empty air. "Anytime 'e wanted to, anytime - 'e could have killed us all."

In the distance, Dorian thinks he can hear someone getting sick in the bushes.

"Right." The Inquisitor says, turning away. "So… that's done."

\------------------------

No losses on the Inquisition's side. A few of the scouts were badly injured by the wyverns, but all will recover. Considering how things might have gone, and with the Venatori now struck from the plains it's a solid victory, but no one feels much like celebrating. The mood around camp is heavy and subdued, most conversation in whispers. Julian had been escorted back to the caves, wide-eyed and silent. Sera complained that she was tired, and disappeared into her tent the moment they'd returned, while Iron Bull's taken up a place by the fire, methodically cleaning every weapon he can find.

Dorian waits a respectful amount of time, before it's clear the Inquisitor isn't going to spend his evening among them, and then follows the line of scouts keeping watch along the riverbank. The Inquisitor is always given a respectful measure of privacy, but is far too valuable to be left entirely on his own. Thierry says he doesn't mind, that it isn't much different than being back at the Circle, which once more makes Dorian wonder how many minutes he'd last at a southern tower before blowing a hole in the nearest wall.

_Likely about half as long as you lasted in your own._

The Inquisitor sits with his back against the rocks, on a low outcrop near the edge of the river - singing, a low and mournful tune and eventually Dorian's close enough to pick out the words - a dead sailor's lament, longing for dark peace beneath the endless waves. One of Ostwick's cheerier shanties, no doubt. 

"You're aware," Dorian says, "that if you're trying to avoid that Herald of Andraste business, all that singing…"

The Inquisitor keeps his eyes to the water.

"Maybe we'll get lucky, and the Maker will show up and ask me to stop."

"Do you know any songs without a body count?"

"Only in Orlesian. Blame my sister - it was mostly murder ballads from her end. Including the lullabies." He sighs heavily. "I'm not an idiot."

"This is already a conversation destined for greatness." Dorian shrugs off his coat. "If you're going to sit here staring grimly into the middle distance, you can at least let me get something out of it."

He drops to the Inquisitor's feet, leaning back, shoulders presented for attention. It's just cool enough that Thierry's hands are warm and welcome against his skin, thumbs digging a bit into muscle and Dorian lets out a little, pleased sound, settling back to bask in the attention. Partly because he did take a bit of a workover in that fight - armor or no armor - and partly because the Inquisitor needs to be close to someone, needs to know he's still trusted.

"How is it, that you always find me at my best?"

Dorian smiles. "Striking when you're emotionally vulnerable saves time."

"They did try to warn me you were clever."

He can't sense the Anchor now unless he deliberately goes searching for it, and even then only a whisper of power. Nothing to suggest the Inquisitor could tear down the world the way he had, could turn it into such a weapon.

"How's the girl?" Thierry asks.

They still don't know her name, their lone survivor from the Venatori camp. Dorian had worried all that blood magic might be hiding one last, nasty surprise, but she had been clear of spellcraft, no demons or compulsions waiting to strike. He never touched her, but she trembled the entire time, hard enough that Dorian could hear her teeth chatter, unresponsive to questions in any language.

In a way, her fear had seemed a good sign - if she was still aware enough to be afraid, at least she hadn't abandoned the world altogether. But she had been cruelly used, worn to the bone, and the ugly marks on her pale arms reminded Dorian too much of all those dead halla. He'd been glad that the kindest thing he could do was keep his distance.

"I believe she's taken to trailing after Harding." Dorian says. Their emergency ambassador, calm and cheerful enough to put anyone at ease, though it seems she'd also dispatched _two_ wyverns on her own. "She's alive, at least. Anything more than that might take some time."

"I would have killed her, at the Rift," the Inquisitor says, very quietly. "If I had to. If I knew I didn't… I could have let her die. I know why I have to keep myself alive. I'm not stupid enough to think I can save everyone, and I would never risk anyone in the Inquisition for the sake of my own conscience."

"I believe you." Dorian says. "A little to the left, if you don't mind."

He feels the faint warmth of healing magic flow down into his skin, soothing the worst of the bruises. It's unnecessary, but Dorian's not about to complain, and it's only when he feels Thierry give a slight tug on the other end that he realizes he's been drawing that bit of magic closer without ever intending to, like reading over the Inquisitor's shoulder and then pulling the book right out of his hands.

"Maker, you really can't stand not being in charge, can you?" Thierry says fondly. For a span of time they sit in silence, watching windswept ripples lap against the shore, the far bank of the river an empty silhouette against the darkening sky, revealing nothing.

"We've upset the balance here." The Inquisitor says. "Gaspard's men are going to work every inch of this cease fire to their advantage. The Empress' armies are still out there somewhere across the river. We need to find out what sort of shape they're in, as soon as we can."

All of it true, but not what Dorian came here for.

"It seems that you've been holding out on me in our duels, Inquisitor."

Thierry's fingers tighten on his shoulder, and he goes very still.

"Did you ever have… we made agreements, in Ostwick. The mages… we all tried to keep an eye on each other. Watched each other's backs, in case anyone ever stopped… acting like themselves."

"You mean abominations?" Dorian smiles. "It's Tevinter. Everyone watches everyone. Of course, they're mostly doing it to make sure they have the best view of any oncoming disaster. No one wants to miss the show."

He wonders just how many parties worth of gossip were ultimately wrung out of the Pavus family implosion.

"You make deals with yourself, too." Thierry says softly. "This is what I'll study, so I don't put anyone in danger. So I don't make anyone worry, and they're not afraid. This is what I choose not to know. If the Templars ever push, this is how hard I'll push back, and this is when I... stop fighting. Whatever the consequences. How… how I make sure I still die as myself."

…and he'd said Ostwick was one of the kinder Circles.

"It's _not_ an inevitability." Dorian says, maybe a bit sharper than he intended but really, now. "You're not destined to… I don't even know, whatever it is you think will happen." He frowns. "I've known scores of mages who've lived and cast spells and died and been quite marvelously dull the entire way through."

"Any of them ever tear open the Veil on a whim?"

Dorian makes a face. "Just because you have power and put it to use doesn't mean you'll suddenly turn into an tyrant, and to the Void with whatever idiot put that idea in your head. The only thing that I'm worried about right now is how to convince you to let me hold your hand the next time you crack open a Rift."

The Inquisitor laughs, a short, astonished bark. "Maker, is there anything that scares you?"

"Corked wine, whatever's living in Warden Blackwall's beard this week - those pants Bull insists on wearing. _Vertical stripes_?" He shudders. The humanity. "Fortunately for you, I'm predisposed to finding gratuitous displays of power quite the turn on."

He remembers it now, the Inquisitor mentioning something in passing, when they'd dragged him half-frozen out of the aftermath of Haven. A new power - but there had been so much else to worry about that all other concerns had fallen by the wayside, and once he'd regained his senses, the Inquisitor had never mentioned it again.

"Does anyone else know?"

"Solas." Thierry says. "I told him, to see if he'd ever heard of anything like it. I know I should have told Cassandra, but…"

Dorian doesn't much care who the Inquisitor tells about anything, but it's clear in Thierry's mind that as a mage, he needs to have checks and balances, people to keep an eye on him. It hurts to imagine that much fear taken for granted, a whole world of mages taught never to trust themselves as a matter of course.

"The really fun part?" The Inquisitor says, holding the marked hand out, fingers flexed. "It isn't all that difficult. I'm not exactly sure how I… the Anchor just does what it does. Like always."

"Have you tried to make that happen when there's not a Rift around?" The real difference in where they've come from, Dorian immediately considering the best ways to test it, to learn its limitations, when it's clear the Inquisitor would rather it just never happen again.

Thierry's gone silent, staring out again across the river, and Dorian reaches up, twines the fingers of that marked hand with his own, feels the Inquisitor draw in an unsteady breath as he brings it closer, brushes his lips against the Anchor. A slight chill, the faintest prickle of needles behind his eyes - only an idiot would discount the danger in what he'd seen, but the Inquisitor needs him to not be afraid, needs it desperately, and for that Dorian would gladly laugh in the face of the Void.

"It's going to be all right, _amatus_." He's already been caught out, there's no point not putting it to good use. Besides, it's only a pet name. A bit of affection, nothing more.

"I scared Bull." Thierry's voice is shaking slightly. "I should not be able to do that."

"You surprised him, that's all. I think he had you firmly pegged as 'mostly harmless,' which you still are, whether or not you occasionally turn the Fade inside-out."

"I told myself at the start, back in Haven - whatever happened to me, it wasn't important as long as the job got done." The Inquisitor says. "As long as what went wrong in Redcliffe doesn't happen here… nothing else matters. I'm not the Herald of Andraste. I know that. The Maker didn't choose me and this," he lifts his marked hand slightly, "this isn't any sort of blessing. One day, everyone else will figure that out and then I… then I'll just be a thing for people to be afraid of."

He makes a little noise, not quite a laugh.

"Vivienne told me I should use that fear - although I think she'll rethink that, when she finds out about today. Maker… first it's 'fire is dangerous' and then it's 'yes, let's make them all afraid of us' - because that certainly worked well for everyone who wasn't at Montsimmard."

What an odd misstep on the First Enchanter's part, thinking Thierry would want anything to do with intimidation as a matter of course, with being put up on a pedestal. Dorian wonders how long it took her to realize her mistake. It's not the worst idea, tactically speaking - but not for the Inquisitor. All alone up there? He'd die.

"Yes, well," Dorian says, "I promise I'll be far more subtle about manipulating you for my own ends."

"You'll be fine." Thierry says. "Just keep talking about your Circle, and I might actually believe I'll get through this."

As if either Dorian or the Imperium deserve that much credit.

"Given everything that's happened so far, I'm amazed you don't think we eat our young."

The Inquisitor leans forward, leaning down, arms wrapping around him. "That's not you. You know it isn't."

"Says the moping mage who thinks he has it in him to be a monster."

"Actually, this is fretting, not moping." The Inquisitor says. "Stick around long enough and there might even be a sulk."

"I do love a good sulk." Dorian says, and sighs. It would have been nice, if it had been Priscus they'd had to dispatch instead, if the Venatori hadn't been so damned young. Dorian can likely chart the course of his entire life without much imagination. No doubt from one of the lesser schools, with talent and ambition enough to see what he wanted but no name to get him there. No opportunities, no path left open except the one the Venatori had provided, full of blood and pain, pointless slaughter to an ignoble end.

"Talk to me?" Thierry murmurs.

"You were there." Dorian says. "You saw it. We mock the Qunari for being so fixed in their ways, but we can't see one inch beyond the boundaries of our past. We're so busy trying to get back what was lost that we don't try to do better, or imagine such a thing could even exist - and the more I see of those so-called former glories the less impressed I am. The Venatori are _literally_ serving the creature who destroyed the Imperium the first time around, all for the chance to do it again - which is so embarrassing I can't even consider it irony."

"He was young, wasn't he?" The Inquisitor says. "The Venatori. He didn't look that far out of his apprenticeship."

"I've seen younger mages die in more foolish ways." At least a few each season, a sad sort of debut all its own.

"It's really that bad in your Circles?"

"No… and yes." Dorian says. "Competition breeds ruthlessness - so we put our greatest efforts into tearing each other down. Our best and brightest feed on each other, and consider it a sign of strength, of pride." He sighs. "I hate to admit it, but I can see how a reasonable person might think I am wasting my time. It's hard to argue for a solution when no one else thinks there's a problem."

He'd come down here to cheer up the Inquisitor, not to demand anything of him, not to be comforted - but here they are, and Dorian is terrible at being resolute and it feels so good to just lean back into that embrace.

"Measure any of us by the worst of what we're capable of and we'd all be damned." Thierry says. "Three-quarters of my closest advisors had a hand in Kirkwall, and everyone remembers the Grand Cleric, but there's so many who died before she did. People no one even knows to remember - Circle mages, people who were supposed to be safe. I believe Cullen and Cassandra were doing their absolute best and I'm just as certain that if I'd been sent to Kirkwall, I'd be dead or Tranquil by now. So… I'm not going to condemn a whole country of people I don't know, even if most of the ones I do want my head on a pike."

"Why did you decide to trust me?"

"Oh, I don't." Thierry says, and Dorian can feel the smile in the gentle kiss pressed to his temple. "But if I let you find that out, you might stop dueling with me and there goes all my fun."

"I see. Best keep it quiet then."

The Inquisitor draws back, but pulls Dorian up with him until he's sitting with his back against Thierry's chest, the Inquisitor's head on his shoulder, and he can feel every quiet word echo through his whole body.

"You're an Altus." The Inquisitor says. "Descended from the very first and most powerful human mages."

"So they say." The ones who used all that power to break far more than they'd built. Behold, the mighty Imperium.

"Then it's your destiny to change the world. Only that - change." The Inquisitor pauses, finding the words. "I used to think it mattered, that all those different ideologies would tell you who a person was, but the longer this goes on the less I believe it. It seems like you can take nearly anything - the Mages, the Chantry, the Qun - and turn it into something that just eats people. Or you take those same ideas and build something better, something kind. If what Tevinter is, deep down, is the will to alter history, the audacity to do what others would never dream - well, I think about all that, in the hands of a good man. I kind of want to see where it goes."

A bit ridiculous, being touched by a compliment when he'd all but asked for it, and yet… He reaches one hand back, taking the Inquisitor's in his own once more, and looks out toward the river, takes a deep breath and lets it out slow, focus and _pull_ …

"Dorian… what-?"

"Shh. I'm being impressive."

He won't catch the exact moment just when the sun hits the horizon, there's too much scenery in the way, but the remaining light is lovely enough and Dorian fixes the last bit of the spell together just as some night creature swoops down, plucking a bug off the surface of the river - and it stops, mid-flap as it rises toward the sky. The crickets go silent and the slight breeze stills and they're left breathing quietly in a world inside the world.

"Okay." The Inquisitor says quietly. Awed. He always loses syllables when he's awed. "Yeah. Damn."

Dorian tries not to look like he's shamelessly preening. "Do you want to see how it works? I could try it again, and-"

The Inquisitor obviously has another idea, a hand on his waist, already turning Dorian to face him.

"Unfortunately, I don't think _that's_ going to be much diff-"

It isn't. It is. Just a kiss. Just a moment stolen right out of time, for the two of them.

They're still kissing when the spell ends, when the world flips from sunset to full dark, and they both laugh as the moon pops into the sky like an afterthought. It's cold with the light gone - everywhere's always cold in the South - but Thierry doesn't seem to mind sitting against the stones and Dorian has no problems curling up against him, even if his coat makes a more fashionable blanket than a successful one. Whatever's waiting for them back in camp can wait a little longer. He doesn't have to do anything, if he doesn't want to. He doesn't have to say a word.

"… am I your first?"

A round of applause for Dorian Pavus, because the moment can't ruin itself. Well, at least he's asked now, it's out there and if the rest goes downhill at least Dorian knows the way. 

"My first what?" Thierry says, confused.

" _Inamorato_. Male paramour." Bless every evening soiree, every dinner and fete and public display that means he can sound blithe now, barely interested, especially when Thierry stills, fingers falling from where they'd been playing with the ties at his shoulder.

"Ah, no. You're… _no_. Very not my first."

Dorian smiles, in relief and amusement at the unexpected embarrassment in the Inquisitor's voice. " _Very_ "?

"… and this is the part where I'm wishing we'd been a little less thorough with the decimating of the enemy." Thierry mutters, glancing around as if a passing demon might step in to save him from this conversation. Of course, there's only the river, and the stars twinkling high above.

"I, ah… I have been with people. Maybe… a lot of people, all things considered. A few more people than some people would…" He frowns. "You can tell me to shut up anytime, really."

"Just waiting to see if the sun will rise on this sentence."

"It… in the Circle, there are things that you can have, and things that you can't, no matter who your parents are or how much they care. So you try to focus on the positives. A lot of us, we agreed to keep it all… informal. Just for fun, to be there for each other." Thierry rolls his eyes. "Maker, I make it sound so… it wasn't that bad, not for me."

"You trained yourself to be what they wanted."

Dorian wonders how much of what the Inquisitor is comes from that - the selflessness, the patience and restraint. Fearing the consequences of wanting things for himself, of anything less than perfect control.

"It wasn't bad." Thierry protests again. "Most of the time, it's the right thing to be." He laughs a little, to himself. "You know, I've had this argument before with the rebel mages."

"What, that you were just as ridiculously decent _before_ you were the Herald?"

"That 'I'm too busy sucking Templar cock to give a damn about the rebellion,' is how I think it goes." A derisive snort. "Stupid. As if I can't suck cock _and_ annoy the Chantry. It's not that hard."

"Maybe _you're_ not." Dorian says, mostly joking, although it is a bit… distracting when the Inquisitor chooses to be so carelessly vulgar. It shouldn't surprise him by now, but it always feels like being caught jerking off in a Chantry hall. Not that Dorian ever has. Been caught.

"I… I thought that Tevinter… well, you hear things, and then there was that game around the fire…" The Inquisitor drops his head back against the stone, looking up to the sky. "I've had people get… insulted before. When they find out how many people I've…" Dorian wonders about the history behind those pauses, all the stories he may never know. "It doesn't mean I don't care. If we're even… if that even matters to you."

_If it even matters…_

As far as the Inquisitor knows, Dorian thinks what's between them is simply a lark, no more than passing time - or that he's even having his real fun elsewhere. Either it honestly doesn't bother Thierry, or he believes he has no right to ask questions or make demands. For whatever reason, Dorian still has control of this - what he has to explain, how much of himself he has to risk. It's pathetic to feel as relieved as he does by that, treating every honest moment as if it were a game of chess to be studied, always playing on the defensive. Surely the man deserves better.

"I could hardly be a proper libertine while complaining of your misadventures, Inquisitor. Next I'd be accused of having principles." Dorian sets the smirk in place, trying to think of a clever segue and cursing himself as the words refuse to do more than tangle. "Just for clarity's sake, is there anyone else at the moment, that I should know, that you…?"

"No." The Inquisitor says, pleasantly decisive, "and I wouldn't… I don't lie about that. As far as I'm concerned, it's just you and me… at least until you need another warm body for your next 'more than five'."

It's Dorian's turn to laugh. "Maker, the stories they peddle about you southern mages and your little covert orgies are _all_ true, aren't they?"

"Actually, you can blame Tevinter for that one as well. 'Look Theo, I've brewed up this batch of 'Secret Ancient Imperium Aphrodisiac'. Let's all test it out together. For science!"

"Was it the purple one? I do love the purple one." Honestly, Dorian never bothered much with esoteric love potions when imported whiskey and creative groping usually got the job done. "Did you happen to keep the recipe?"

"Maker, I can't even imagine what happened to those notes." Thierry says. "Probably still stuck to the ceiling."

"Lovely image, that."

Is he so nervous because this is all so easy? Dorian's used to keeping his guard up - at all times, no questions, with few exceptions to the rule and even fewer as of late - but the Inquisitor is already there somehow, past all the walls and arguments and necessary boundaries like he's not even trying because he _isn't_ trying and Dorian keeps waiting to be disappointed, even as his fears prove unfounded, struck down as fast as he can conjure them.

 _Whatever happens, you'd still be friends._ Indeed, the Inquisitor seemed to consider it the natural order of things. No hard and obvious boundaries, no being tossed out of Skyhold on his ear once he proved inconvenient. Wherever this may end, Dorian is neither experiment or curiosity. If he asked, the Inquisitor might very well make further assurances, but that would mean showing his hand. Admitting how much he cared, admitting this man into his life, and once he started down that road…

 _I left Tevinter twice, really._ He imagines saying. _Once to follow Alexius to Redcliffe, but before that, when my father, when he…_

Nothing but a pile of ugly truths. A tedious, terrible bore of a past that remains at a distance just as long as he stays silent.

A large hand kneads gently at the back of his neck, fingers traveling slowly down his spine, a pleasant break from a useless reverie.

"I swear I can actually _hear_ you thinking." The Inquisitor grins. "It's fascinating."

"Just having a little argument with myself."

"Who's winning?"

"At the moment, I do believe it's a draw."

"… is there anything you need me to do?" Thierry says. "I'll warn you, I am legendarily fuck awful when it comes to subtle hints, but I try to make up for it by taking directions well. Just try to use small words, maybe draw the occasional picture."

_Sleep with him already, Dorian. Sleep with him and lie about the rest. You're good at both those things._

"... would you believe I'm not actually _trying_ to lead you on?" Dorian murmurs. Wishing his life were something he could write up on a board, see it all stretched out and broken down - to solve the problem of himself once and for all. "You are… too patient with me. I doubt you'll be rewarded for it."

"As if he's not already the best part of all this nonsense." The Inquisitor's hands chafe at his arms - so warm. "Whatever time you need, Dorian, you take it. I'll still be here when you're done. Not to discount your near-limitless charms, but there's always the impending end of all creation if I need to keep myself distracted."

"What is our next move, then?"

"Cleaning out the Riverside Garrison - which is by all accounts full to the brim with demons, and then we go find Celene's forces, and probably get slaughtered by whatever it is that killed them all."

"An entire army vanished without a trace?" Dorian says. "Oh, I'm sure that's nothing to worry about."

Dorian must concede a tip of the staff to the lost lords of Dirthamen. As low as his expectations are, the _ancient elven death ray_ is still a bit of a surprise.


	19. Chapter 19

“ _This_!“ Sera howls, as they barely manage to stay ahead of the roaring maw of fire, kicking up clouds of newly-incinerated undead that make Dorian’s eyes water and his throat raw. Three days later, and he’ll still be picking bits of ash out of his ears. “This _right here_ is why I fucking _hate elves_!”

Months from now, after a great many things have resolved themselves, Dorian will glimpse a copy of the report from the Exalted Plains among stacks of documents bound for the growing Inquisition archives. All a part of Josephine’s strategy for keeping them alive, or at least acceptably fashionable, in Halamshiral.

It will seem amusing, so much conflict and confusion summarized in a few, dry words - “aid provided to Orlesian villagers, Venatori eliminated, ruins marked for future exploration, dragon reported near swamp.” Of course, events at the Winter Palace will render nearly all of their work on the Plains little more than an afterthought, not even of much historical interest. Ultimately pushed into obscurity by more important and difficult battles - Crestwood is worse, Adamant _far_ worse, and Dorian will spend a very long time wanting to erase Emprise du Lion from every map he sees.

All that, however, belongs to the future. The _now_ is an unholy grind of days between the Garrison and the inner doors of the Citadelle du Corbeau. Nearly a week of solid fighting that begins from the moment they hit the other side of the shattered bridge, and Dorian remembers little more than orders from Bull and the Inquisitor’s shouts of warning, with Sera claiming all his empty lyrium bottles for launching more makeshift grenades at wave after wave of undead soldiers.

More of them seem to be lurking here than at the other Ramparts combined, along with a second Revenant once they finally breach the Citadelle, though it is Sera’s turn for triumph as it explodes out the doorway and directly into the path of her conveniently abandoned-yet-still-armed ballista.

“ _Told_ you, didn’t I?” She crows, the Revenant twitching ever so slightly where it’s been impaled into a crumpled heap against the wall. “Told you there was a poxy, tinbox shitknob waiting behind that door!”

A rare moment of victory, quickly drowned out by the ceaseless stench and shuffle of the dead and more dead, demons and more demons and just for icing on the unholy cake, the howling inferno of the Dalish defenses. It stops them all short, just this side of safety in the shadowed archway, as good a place as any to watch an undead archer reduced to ash in an instant.

“Well,” Dorian says, “that’s novel.”

“Nah.” Sera says, softly, and giggles a little. “You know, let’s not. Let’s just _not_.”

Iron Bull only sighs, shifting his axe to the other shoulder.

It’s all quite fascinating from a thaumaturgical perspective, if a bit eager to reduce them to a line of heroic cinders.

“I think there’s a pattern to it.” The Inquisitor says, watching the beam drag back and forth, scorching the stones. “… maybe?” 

The battle that follows is a brutal, mad kind of hopscotch in between areas of dubious safety, with narrow archways and rotting wooden bridges they send Sera over first, light and nimble and cursing all the way. The roar of that ancient weapon is an unnerving constant, the air a thick, disgusting mix of ozone, charcoal and powdered bones.

The reward for all their effort? Dead bodies scattered outside a barred door, and battered soldiers inside with little to offer but wary gratitude and further requests for help. An exhausting finale in ways that have nothing to do with aches and pains.

Dorian’s quite surprised, then, to be the first one awake, the morning after they’ve secured the Citadelle. He can’t say he’s grown any fonder of camping as the days progress - oh, for a window he could shut and a wall to put it in, to keep the outside _out_ \- but there is something about stepping out into the first moments of a fresh, new day. The air is cool and clean, everything soft and quiet and the sky has the luminous, hazy quality of an eggshell held against the light.

It feels holy - foolish as the sentiment may sound - and for the moment, he really does feel blessed to be alive.

In such a hallowed silence, the halla does not seem at all out of place. Dorian is out of his tent before he’s really registered it, standing silently in the middle of their camp. He isn’t as taken with them as the Inquisitor is - who could be? - but Dorian can still appreciate their beauty. This one is of a rare form - with fur that sparkles as much silver as white, antlers practically gleaming golden against the first rays of the sun, and a long, slender neck dipped gracefully down as it swiftly devours the fruit from the small bag it’s pulled from his coat.

Technically, it’s all his fault. Dorian took the coat off outside because it was easier than wrestling with it inside his tent, and he’d set it down for some reason and only realized the mistake when he was already inside and he’d been too lazy to get up and retrieve it - because really, what could happen? He’d cast spells on the bag to protect it from bears and theft but _not_ from halla theft, and that seems to be the distinction that mattered.

Dorian splutters in outrage, fumbling over several creative curses that aren’t quite awake enough to come to his aid, but he still has to yell something.

“No! _No!_ Bad halla! Very bad halla!”

The wretched creature leaps away, lithe as a dancer, and he can barely hear the sound of its hooves against the ground as it disappears back into the brush, taking his bag of treats with it.

A flap flips out on a nearby tent, Sera and one of the scouts peering out at him. Dorian’s half-surprised to see it isn’t Harding, but a human girl recently arrived from one of the other camps, with sleep-mussed hair and a wicked-looking knife in her hand. Obviously expecting to find more danger than their resident Tevinter still making occasional disgruntled noises, pointing from his crumpled coat to a patch of trees and back again.

“… Right.” Sera finally says, not understanding but not really caring, either. “So… looks like that’s sorted, then? Good on you.”

The two of them disappear back into the tent without another word.

—————————————

Gaspard’s forces are not entirely pleased with the return of Celene’s army to the field, but for the moment each side seems to be more interested in nursing their own wounds than sniping at each other, and no one can claim the Inquisition isn’t doing as it promised with the amount of demons they’d rousted from the Citadelle.

Scouting the Dales further west is hardly free from danger - too many Rifts still scattered about to let their guard down for long, but given everything they’ve dealt with so far, it does feel a bit like a vacation. Even the weather’s better, as they move away from plains and fields into the more wooded regions. There are no more ruined villages or anonymous corpses, and everyone’s mood improves.

Which is how they finally meet up with the Dalish hunters, jumping in to assist them with yet another pesky demon problem. It does seem to be a handy way of making friends, and even the notoriously reticent elves are glad for the help, offering up polite if wary conversation.

The encounter is brief and relatively uneventful, but the Inquisitor hasn’t stopped smiling since, nearly bouncing along the path. It should be ridiculous, not charming. Dorian should not have to work so hard to keep his smile at bay.

“There was a clan in the Free Marches - Lavellan, I think?” The Inquisitor says. “They moved into the area just after I went to the Circle, of course. Traders, craftsmen - my brother’s ridden horses against theirs in races, from time to time. Maker, I always wanted to meet them.”

“You do remember I’ve got a few elves on my team, boss?” Bull says. “You know, like the one _named_ Dalish?”

“We’ve talked a bit. We have, but I just… I mean…” The Inquisitor glances back the way they’ve come. “Aravel! That was… I actually _saw_ an _aravel_.”

“It’s a cart.” Sera says, rolling her eyes. “Just ‘cause it’s got some fancy name doesn’t mean it’s not a _cart_. Bunch of daft, elfy bullshit, naming carts. Like that Citadel Cor-balls - ‘Set our own house on fire, that’ll keep things safe!’”

“Oh, come now, Sera,” Dorian soothes, “you didn’t even get singed.”

“Could’ve, yeah?” She makes a face, and then another for good measure. “Might be better than dealing with more elves. We’re not _really_ gonna go out of our way to find them, are we?”

“Not out of our way.” The Inquisitor says, which means yes.

Of course, the Rifts are their primary concern, and there are plenty of those for the taking, the Inquisitor’s hand sparking like an overexcited compass before they’ve even left the path. 

Dorian’s seen Thierry and Bull talking alone, all short sentences and serious expressions - what happened with the Venatori, he presumes. If Bull has any lingering doubts or worries, he’s keeping them well to himself. Sera, on the other hand, keeps to a new distance. Flinching away from the Inquisitor’s spells even when he’s nowhere close to her, not joking with him like she used to. Still skittish and unsure. It hurts Thierry, obviously, though he tries not to show it, and does his best to give her space. 

Dealing with the Rifts is practically routine by now, and they knock off two in relatively quick succession. Nothing too dangerous, wraiths that aren’t fast and rage demons who aren’t clever and Dorian’s got plenty of ice to spare. 

The third Rift is almost beautiful, dancing above the shallow river, a few demons prowling below, It takes a bit more focus to ensure a sound footing, but the water proves useful, a wave that Dorian can freeze halfway, the Inquisitor shattering it into spikes to slam through a terror demon even as it tries to slip back into the Fade. 

An easy fight, as these things go, and as Inquisitor raises his hand and closes the Rift, Dorian wonders if they might have the time to double back, for a closer look at those ruins they’d passed by - a Dalish structure that wasn’t out to kill them, how novel!

He hears Thierry make a small, thoughtful sound, as if he’s just noticed something unexpected. The splash that follows is odd, but the sun is warm and the world is quiet and so he doesn’t connect the two at first. Not until Sera’s wordless shout, and by the time Dorian turns, the Inquisitor is already face down in the water. 

————————————

Iron Bull has him up half a heartbeat later, Sera still shouting as Dorian spins around, heart thudding as he searches for danger over the gentle rush of the river, the wind combing through the leaves. If there’s an archer above them, in the trees…

“What happened?” Sera says, now looking for threats herself. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s breathing.” Iron Bull says, which shaves the slightest edge off Dorian’s panic. “No arrows, no knives. Could be a dart I can’t see yet, or a spell…”

“It’s not magic.” Dorian says, already looking, no echoes of energy that aren’t his, the Inquisitor’s, or the lingering traces of the freshly-healed Rift. “At least not anything new.”

It’s exceedingly fortunate that when the Dalish elf chooses to make his presence known, it’s from a place on the bank far enough away that they can barely see him, let alone consider him a threat. He’s standing well in the open, calling out, with no weapons in sight. Dorian is still on high alert, his caution at war with the need to get the Inquisitor on dry land, to find out what happened, what’s wrong and most importantly how to fix it.

For all their fabled hostility, this particular Dalish elf looks more delighted at their approach than any of the Orlesian soldiers had been.

“You’re them, aren’t you? The Inquisition?” His bright-eyed excitement falters as he finally notices the Herald in Bull’s arms. “Is he all right?”

“No.” Dorian says, instantly cursing his tongue. “Yes. I don’t know. We need someplace to put him down.”

The elf nods. “Right. Follow me.”

His name is Loranil, and he leads them quickly along the bank of the tributary, moving toward the Enavuris river, with Iron Bull providing quiet commentary - “pulse is steady, no bleeding, no scratches or bites I can see ” - along with the nod that means ‘still breathing’ every time Dorian can’t help but glance back over his shoulder. It’s not long before they have their first glimpse of the Dalish camp, the aravel sails like tall, red trees peeking up over the rocks bordering the riverbank.

It’s not the most impressive arrival, but that hadn’t ever been the plan. It seemed better to keep as light a touch as possible, no reason to antagonize the elves over a simple introduction. Ideally they might be able to cut a deal, offering assistance in exchange for details about the area. If nothing else, they could at least provide an explanation of their purpose and presence, if things couldn’t be more friendly.

Dorian doubts things will be more friendly.

Two archers are waiting for them, bows nocked and ready, though they relax a bit as Loranil starts talking. Dorian ought to pause and wait and be polite but if there’s something wrong with the Inquisitor they’ve already wasted too much time. So he sweeps past the guards to the first decent patch of clear riverbank he can find, his coat a lumpy excuse for a pillow but if the Inquisitor insists on being so rudely unconscious he gets what he gets.

Iron Bull lays him down carefully, and even though Dorian knows he’s already checked, he can’t help reaching out himself, feeling for the pulse that - yes, there, steady as ever beneath his touch.

“This is insufferable.” Dorian mutters, glaring at the unconscious Inquisitor. “You’re _insufferable_.”

He’s not panicking, he’s _not_ , because so far there’s nothing wrong, no sign of attack or danger. He’d _know_ if it were some long-tail curse or some nasty business from the Citadelle or if Thierry had been yanked into the Fade and there’s no sign of that. Nothing wrong with the Inquisitor at all, except for the whole faceplanting-into-the-river business.

“Three Rifts today.” Iron Bull says. “He ever do three Rifts in one day before?”

“Not sure.” Dorian had been a bit preoccupied in Redcliffe to keep a running tally there - but counting back from today, adding in not just the Rifts but the fighting and the healing and what he’d done with the Venatori - the Inquisitor said it wasn’t difficult, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a price to pay. It’s hardly a stretch to assume he would push himself so far, ignore his own needs for the common good. The Inquisitor had said he had trouble keeping his feet with those first few Rifts - is that all this is, nothing more than simple exhaustion catching him by surprise?

“Ah, _shit_.” Iron Bull says, because it’s been about three seconds and so of course Sera’s already picking a fight with one of the guards at the edge of camp. The Qunari quickly moves to intervene, which leaves Dorian alone. He can see several pairs of legs just at the periphery of his vision, their arrival finally starting to draw a more substantial crowd.

“You see?” He mutters. “This is why no one respects a southern mage. Passing out all over the place, without even the courtesy of sharing a bottle first. It’s shameful.”

If it’s any other problem with the Anchor, something different, something _new_ , there’s not much Dorian can do, is there? Let’s not talk about the way he’s holding on to the Inquisitor’s hand anyway, rubbing a thumb across those lax fingers, and if the blighted fool would just _open his eyes_ … 

“If you haven’t noticed, Inquisitor, it would appear I am perilously close to being _in charge_ , and I don’t think any of us wants that. You do not leave the Tevinter mage to deal with the elves.” 

Evidently, he does. A shadow falls across him, and at the edge of his vision Dorian can see the last few inches of an ornately tailored coat, and a staff held very lightly against the ground, ready to throw a spell at the first errant twitch he makes.

“These are not good times to come unbidden before the people.”

“No,” Dorian agrees, not looking up. “I would imagine not.”

It must be the clan’s… Keeper, that’s the word. He sounds calm and commanding and quite tired of having to be calm and commanding.

“Especially here, where we remember the destruction of our home at the hands of - _fenhedis_.“

… and _that_ would be the moment he notices the Anchor. Most mages are a bit startled when they finally get a feel for it, even if at the moment it’s little more than a wobble in the Veil. If there’s more, if there’s something he doesn’t know he’s missing - if only Solas were -

“Now look what you’ve made me do.” Dorian mutters down at the Inquisitor. “I’m actually _missing Solas_.“

“You are not welcome here, stranger.”

“Oh, is this a bad spot? I’m perfectly happy to move to the _less_ -sacred gravel.” Dorian says, because apparently he wants to improve this situation by getting himself kicked into the river. “Look, I apologize for our sudden intrusion. We don’t intend any harm or disrespect to you or your people - just let me make sure my friend is all right, and we’ll go.”

Either the Keeper is surprised by his politeness, or he’s still too busy being stunned by the Anchor. “…what did he do to himself?”

Despite everything, Dorian smirks. “That is a much longer story than I think you want to hear.”

It may be his first time among the Dalish, but the Keeper’s pained sigh is familiar, and when he glances up Dorian is not at all surprised to see a look that would not be out of place on any of his instructors over the years - a mix of suspicion and disdain and the growing certainty that Dorian will prove far more trouble than he’s worth. 

At least Iron Bull has managed to keep Sera from beating him to the inevitable diplomatic incident.

“It’s them, _hahren_.” Loranil pops up, as cheerful as ever, and it’s amusing to watch the Keeper’s annoyed expression shift to him. “It’s the Inquisition, like I told you. I saw them - they fought the demons and closed the tear in the sky.”

“What are you doing here, _da’len_?” The Keeper says. “I sent you out to keep watch for our hunters.”

“You mean the ones with the aravel?” Dorian says. “Olafin, I believe his name was? We met up with them on our way here. They took a bit of a detour, but should be on their way soon.” 

He can practically hear the frown lines getting deeper, the Keeper’s brow crinkling - he was too reasonable to shoot them on sight, and now the Inquisition won’t do him the favor of being rude first. Loranil says something in elvhen, and the Keeper responds in kind, long spans of conversation interspersed with ‘Inquisition’ and ‘Andraste’ and Dorian wonders just how and where their little Dalish supporter found the information to be this excited, to argue so hard for their side.

There’s little he can add to a conversation he can’t understand, so Dorian turns his attention back to the Inquisitor. Nothing’s changed - he’s still breathing, heartbeat still steady, Anchor still… anchoring, 

_“Try not to push so hard. It doesn’t always want to work on your terms.”_

Dorian takes a breath, and lets the thin ribbon of magic uncurl on its own, to drift where it will and tell him what it wants - it’s easier now, when he’s not trying to heal someone who’s actively threatening to die on him. Dorian feels it, when the Inquisitor catches the other side. A steady weight, but not dragging on him, not desperate for help - just tired, and there’s nothing he can do that time and rest won’t accomplish on its own. There’s no particular hurry, that Rift in the river already the last of what they’d planned on taking care of for the day.

“Why’s he not waking up?” Iron Bull and Sera have returned, when Dorian opens his eyes, and the archer nudges the Inquisitor’s knee with the toe of her boot. “Oi, magebits! Rise and shine!”

It would seem childish, if not for the real fear in her eyes. 

“He’s all right.” Dorian says. “Just taking a bit of a break without us. Rather selfish, really. We should have just let him drift downstream.”

Over her shoulder, Dorian can see the elves still talking, sees one of them gesture at her. Sera may think the Dalish believe she’s no different than a human, but much like the Orlesians in the cave, these elves have also noticed the quality of her armor and her bow, and whatever their opinion it is more than indifference. 

The Keeper nods, finally stepping away from the group toward them, still looking as if he wishes this were anyone else’s problem.

“What do you want from us, stranger?”

“Preferably, I’d like to get him someplace warm and dry for a while.” Dorian says. “At the very least, I would beg pardon to borrow a blanket or two for the trip back to our camp. If anyone asks, I’ll make sure to tell them you were admirably inhospitable and I was the usual shemlen boor. Your secret is safe with me.”

Loranil start to speak again, another determined plea by the look of it, but the Keeper raises a hand for silence.

“… very well.” He sighs. “As you have helped us, we will return the favor. For now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. This was supposed to be the last Exalted Plains chapter but there will be one more.


End file.
